H eadlines
brothers and I were unilaterally
enlisted as Torah readers, which
sent me, at least, scrambling for
recordings of my pasukim that
used the High Holiday trope
(thank you to B’nai Tikvah in
Canton, Massachusetts). As the
Days of Awe drew nearer, the
spreadsheet was filled, slowly
but surely. N. volunteered to
talk about the Zichronot; R.,
her husband, the Malchuyot.

Meanwhile, a borrowed
Torah appeared in my
mother’s office, promoted from
mudroom status at the begin-
ning of the pandemic. It sat
in the “do not forget this on
the way out of the house” spot
usually reserved for wallets
and, once, homework.

On the morning of the
service, our middle brother
looked at his Torah reading for
the first time. He claims that
the total number of mistakes
he ended up making in his
leining were equal to mine
and, therefore, my practicing
had been futile. I contend
that reading straight past the
ending of the assigned portion,
unwittingly running a half a
verse into mine, was greater in
degree. We have a few days left
to forgive each other, anyway.

Beneath the unwelcome
shade of mid-morning, we
rubbed our hands together
and wriggled our toes as we
gently laid the Torah down on
a folding table and distributed
machzorim. We began late, but
we began.

We prayed and sang. M.’s
voice brought wandering
minds back to pasture, and
friends offered their thoughts
on different segments of the
service. We mourned the fact
that L., touched by God as a
shofar blower, would not wow
us this year, as the service fell
on Shabbat; we said Kaddish
for Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I
wondered what my bubbe was
doing and, while I did, my
youngest brother volunteered
me to lead “Ein Keloheinu.”
As we packed everything
back into the car, settling on
a nearby creek as our tashlich
spot, I tried to think how we
might safely get bubbe to our
Yom Kippur service, planned
for our own backyard. Maybe, I
thought, we could perch her in a
tree above the service with some
sort of ad-hoc pulley system,
and sell it to her as being like a
backyard opera box. She could
watch us chant “Vidui” through
tiny, gilded binoculars.

Wouldn’t that be a real
laugh? l
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