“It is my honor to announce… ah, to announce that it is now Yom HaShichzur. Today is the day of our restoration and… ah, and the first celebration of our return to life. May we take this day every year, the 41st day, February tenth, to… ah, to rejoice with each other that we are here, that despite the wills of others who would have otherwise, we are still here.” I bow once more and gesture at the open space before the stage, cueing the oneirotects standing to the side to dream up the banquet that will be our first feast. “Chag sameach.”
And now, I am free. I linger a polite five seconds on the stage before turning and stepping down the stairs, carefully making sure that I walk unhurried, to pad back to the synagogue, to my office, to comfort and softness and the dark beneath my desk.
There will be merriment or tears. There will be feasting and chatting or small, awkward silences. I do not know. I do not care. I will not be there. This has been too much, and the tensions are high.
+The synagogue itself is a relatively small building built into the side of a hill — the hill on top of which we had our gathering —