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As fulfilling as it was to engage in Shavuot programs, a lot weighs on me. With COVID-19 continuing to ravage Black communities and racist violence all over the news, I almost feel like it’s Yom Kippur instead – the time when Jews are supposed to be most aware of their own mortality.

This week, I tell a friend I’d love to chat but actually I have to run Yom Kippur services are starting soon and I’ve got to repent for my sins before the gates are closed. She laughs. “Well, you’re gay, so you’ve definitely got a lot of repenting to do.”

Each year, the voice that speaks to my soul about the contrast between the inward focus of Yom Kippur and the outward thrust of Sukkot grows louder and louder.

Inspired by Yom Kippur services in 5778, this poem reflects one writer's view of the most holy day in the Jewish year.

If, as the Talmud tells us, the blasts of the shofar are meant to remind us of crying, (Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 33A – specifically of Sisera’s mother – but that is another subject!), then I would offer the following.

This is not going to be a sad story, I promise. But it does start out with the process of going through my parents’ condo after their passing.