Every year I sit with my mother for Yom Kippur services. I space out for most of it, hum along with prayers I learned years ago, stare at the stain glass panels searching for imperfections, read the prayer book randomly like people who spin a globe and go to wherever their finger lands. The music is familiar, heavy. Waves of sadness move through me. My father. My sister. The young son of an old friend. I say I hate coming, but I’ll miss it when she’s gone. I’ll miss everything.
May you be written in the book of life.
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