When you’re the Rabbi’s daughter, your father doesn’t just belong to you, he belongs to the whole community
Back home in New York, dusk is when the kids scurry inside with their ball and the women on the block retreat to their houses, when the fireflies light up the backyard, and bats swoop down to snatch mosquitoes from the air.
Here, in Yerushalayim, I breathe in the cooling air and lift my head to the clear, inky blue sky.
What does that mean, Yerushalayim-blue skies? My son Yeshaya had asked me before we flew out. Is it really so much bluer than in New York?
His last trip to Israel had been seven years ago, as an inquisitive six-year-old who had vowed then to return for his bar mitzvah. Other boys in his class had asked for parties. Yeshaya had been insistent that this was what he’d wanted, and we’d been glad to oblige and travel to Israel and have a small family-only affair there.
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