A Yom Kippur remembered
My father spoke of religion
With unschooled tongue
he could answer no question
from curious daughters
but he davened with ancient
passion under the tent
of his silken tallis
where he and his God
became one
From the balcony where female
congregants sat together
I watched my stoic father cry
as he kissed the cover
of his cherished old siddur
Later when we left the shul
for the hard streets of New York
the air of Fifty Second Street
was sweetened by “Gut Yontif”
as slowly we walked
hand in hand we walked
on this holy day of fast
as my father whispered
“Shaindel, du bist mein zissen kind”
So many decades later
I still remember that taste of honey.
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