The conflicting emotions are suffocating; the joy of a young boy on the brink of life and the private pain of each person there
I
paste a smile on my face and step into the saddest bar mitzvah I’ve ever attended. Strands of sorrow are draped through the air like limp crepe-paper streamers at the worst kids’ party ever.
Picking through the crowd, I introduce myself to the baalat simchah. She smiles broadly. I wish the bar mitzvah boy a mazel tov. His smile is deep and genuine. I exchange congratulations with the grandmothers and aunts, smiling as they rain Sephardic brachot down on my besheiteled head.
It’s set up nicely enough, fake flowers and smudged cutlery notwithstanding. The sisters look beautiful, and the mother is sporting a glittering gold ensemble. Yet the pain is so blinding, I squint.
We sit around, picking at salads, laughing and schmoozing, and trying hard, so hard, not to burst into flames. The bar mitzvah boy’s father arrives, suit pressed, shoes shined. The grandmother lets out a sigh of relief, and for a split second, the facade cracks and I glimpse the rawness beneath.
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