I don’t understand everything about Yom Kippur,
but ever since I was little we dressed up,
went to services all together.
This is where I remember her the most,
the green eyes of my grandmother,
her checkered dress and fuzzy hat,
her strong hands around my cheeks.
I was so little,
but I can still feel them.
My father lets out deep breaths,
shoulders falling.
Etan, listen.
And I can’t help it,
maybe it’s the thought of my grandmother,
or the hole in the apartment where my mother should be,
or the thought of letting my grandfather down,
or maybe something holier or more sacred
that I don’t understand,
but I start to cry in a way that I haven’t for a while,
tears and snot and everything.
My father drops his mitt,
puts his arms around me until the tears stop.
I know, son, but he has to understand,
I mean … once in a liftetime!
But he knows it’s not just about baseball.
I just … since your grandmother died,
and now with your mom,
it’s hard for me to go to synagogue without them.
He holds me there,
and I hold him,
then we quietly watch the game.
By the time the sun is completely set,
the A’s are going to the World Series,
and the Giants have one more game.