Mazel Tov, Menachem. I did it all for you.
His assistant, barely a child, followed half a foot behind, carrying the bulky video equipment into the small room where my son, the chassan, stood. Menachem was wearing his kittel, and on top of that, a raincoat. He smiled nervously at me as I entered.
His future father-in-law was consulting a paper, worrying about who would get the third brachah, and one of his friends was reminding him of various minhagim. I just wanted to enjoy the moment.
Someone knocked on the door and brought in a plate with a little mountain of ashes, perpetual reminders of His holy home, and he smeared some on his fingers. Menachem lifted his hat as the fellow ran his fingers across the front of his head, leaving an odd streak of gray jutting out from under Menachem’s hairline.
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