Yet, here I am again, one of the only ones my age who still goes to shul, because from that day to this, nothing’s different
It’s Rosh Hashanah again and we’re back, in the big shul we don’t usually daven in, sitting in the front row seats our family always uses.
We’re late again — that’s the same.
“Excuse me…so sorry… thanks,” I say to the woman who extends a hand to help me pass. I grasp it entirely as a sign of appreciation, because I’m good on my own.
The path to our front row seat is one I know by heart, the greetings of “good Yom Tov” is a familiar rhythm, and maneuvering the spaces between people a well-practiced choreography. My sisters trace my steps, always right behind me.
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