I stand by the window half-asleep, the brachos wafting in with the wind
“Coming, coming, zeeskeit.” I wash my hands and stumble to the front window, where my daughter is sitting on the back of the couch by the open window.
Her hair is wild and her velour pajamas tell of a self-serve breakfast. Thankfully, it’s only yogurt.
“Yevarechecha!”
“Yevarechecha!”
“They’re giving us a brachah, right, Mommy?”
“Right. Shhhh. And you’re not supposed to look at them.” She closes her eyes for a brief moment before sticking her head out the window again.
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