The brother we knew was never coming back
One winter day six-and-a-half years ago, I was driving down the Garden State Parkway in a storm of freezing rain, traveling with my parents from Brooklyn to Lakewood for a relative’s bris.
My hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and I was driving slowly and very carefully, due to the weather conditions, when we passed a slew of emergency vehicles at the site of an accident. With a silent tefillah that no Yid should be harmed, we continued on our way.
About five minutes later, my mother’s cell phone rang, and a few moments after she answered, she slapped her leg really hard.
My first thought was: Oh, no! Did we forget the bris outfit?
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