This second Yom Kippur/Day of Atonement since Noah’s death was intense but easier than last year, when we sobbed together in synagogue under my husband’s prayer shawl. This year, our grief was more silent and contained, more numb than raw. I still cried and shook during the memorial service, especially when invited to imagine being in a room with our loved one and seeing him walk toward us. I wept at the innocent sung promise to pass on the tradition “from generation to generation,” as we have one less stake now in that future. It was still jarring to move between what my husband calls “the hole in our hearts” and cheerful new year’s greetings to family and friends.
*Note: All poetry on this blog is original work-in-progress unless attributed to others.