Usually on this date I would be at Abbey sister's Jill's, and along with a big family group, we would all break fast together.
We'd also talk about the rabbi's sermon, and find out who fasted, who only drank water, and who didn't fast at all.
None of us ever do the 25-hour fast, which is what tradition calls for. I had always thought it was sundown to sundown but today (thanks to Google) I learn it's even longer.
At Jill's, we would first have a glass of orange juice. Then we would sit down to an enormous feast of bagels, lox, white fish, various salads, kugel and many other foods.
But today is different, it being 2020 and all.
I don't go to services; that's not unusual.
Instead I go for a walk and contemplate life. The mistakes I've made. The many things I have to atone for. And the hope that those I love are inscribed into the Book of Life.
On my way to Central Park, on East 81st Street, I come across an outdoor service, led by a rabbi from Manhattan Jewish Experience, a group I've never heard of. It appears to be orthodox as I notice the men and women are separated.
Many stop. And for a few minutes, we observe the holiday together.
I head over to the park, passing the fountains in front of the Met on my way.
It's an overcast, muggy day. I walk the reservoir, maskless (mostly) which feels good.
I walk 4.2 miles. Come home. Shower. Read the paper. Nap for an hour. And break fast, alone. But still, with the traditional lox and bagels.
I miss the usual.
But I'm grateful for the obvious (health, family, friends).
There is a Jewish saying, "Next year in Jerusalem."
I'd be happy with next year at Jill's.
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