a candle and red flowers
No sheets drape our mirrors. No hard stools beckon us to sit.  No torn ribbons hang from our clothes. No candles burn through our long nights.


But make no mistake.
We are in mourning;
our people are in mourning;
collectively we are sitting shiva.

Grief courses through our veins,
carried on the DNA of our history.
Auschwitz. Dachau. Pogroms.
Now Israel, no longer our safe haven.

How far back must our memory stretch?
How much history can we absorb?
We are grief stricken. We are numb.
Our hearts are broken.

Life goes on around us,
as though nothing has happened.
But something has happened – something unspeakable.
It must be spoken.

We haven’t found the right words yet.

Only these:
Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba…
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