She's petting my hair, cupping my head with her hand the way she did when I was little and my kippah came off at the beach. Hannah pulls out her copy of the Torah and starts reading to us from Leviticus, then Samuel.
We don't talk about where Dad is. We don't talk about why the temple isn't open all day, only for morning services. We don't talk about why Grandma is fluent in Yiddish, but Mom can only read it transliterated and Hannah and I barely know any. We don't even talk about why we do Tashlich on the second day when the rest of the Jewish world does it on the first. Everything is good as the candles burn low.
We all straggle off to bed at some point. Mom stays up to watch the candles, but I hear her door close not too long after mine.
The next morning, I realize what I didn't know I forgot.
"I hate you." Aretz was probably still asleep. I look at the clock. It's 4 o'clock.
"I know. I need to invite you to something."
"No. I hate you."
"Get over it. Come to Rosh Hashanah dinner."
"Your parents hate me."
"No, only my dad. My mom is just happy that I have friends."
"Fine. I'll be by at 6. Go throw your sins at a river and let me sleep."
"Bye. Wake up eventually." That taken care of, I flop back onto my pillows. Cerberus snuffles and kicks for a second, then settles. It's oppressively hot and the sheets stick to me everywhere, clinging and wet. I grab my water bottle off my floor, but it's empty.
Today. I need to figure out today. We're waking up early to get to the old reservoir before the normal crowds that come in the summer. They put up a fence last year to keep us out, but the groundskeeper knows the Rabbi and, if we show up early enough, we usually have the place to ourselves. Rabbi Vineberg is a stickler for fish in the water; otherwise, the congregation would have just used a bucket or bathtub for the last decade.
Hopefully, when I get there, the gate will be unlocked and all the other early-risers will be waiting with coffee and hugs. If everything goes well, we get to do our Tashlich-ing as a group, voices together and watched by the fish all at once. If it doesn't, we'll have to do two shifts.
I don't fall asleep for a few hours, going over the day's plans in excruciating detail. It helps, I think.
YOU ARE READING
Dog Park
Romance"There's a boy at the dog park." Charlie Bick is seventeen years old with a pit bull, a little sister, and not much else. He meets Oliver Hirsh, an adorable blonde with an affinity for ancient history and a 90-pound mutt.
