It was dark as we walked from the sushi restaurant to the quiet and shuttered Jewish main street. Even the observant had finished evening services that Friday night and gone home to warm soup, red wine and fresh loaves.
I hadn’t lit candles. I hadn’t said a single blessing. I hadn’t ushered in the distinction from one day to another.
Still, it was a special day of sorts. In Boston visiting my law-school-student cousin Kyle, the weekend had been long-in-coming and a veritable vacation: no laptop lugged along, no packed itinerary to fulfill.
It was a weekend of exploration and reconnection, of simulated sibling-esque connection. We hiked through the city’s Emerald Necklace until we faced a view so resplendent in Puritanical church spears and russet-hued trees fading toward winter.
Even in early November, the market square was full of produce. I paid one dollar to snack on a quart of sweet strawberries, while Kyle pulled ruby seeds from the heart of a pomegranate.
And then, once back in my formal routine, I caught echoes of the news.
The day before this historic presidential election, the first non-white candidate’s grandmother died. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as I drove the children to school.
“That’s so sad,” I choked out. “That’s just so sad.”
And since I believe that we die at the perfect time and live as long as we have a job left to do on this planet, I pondered the meaning of this timing.
Did Obama need his mother-figure only to see him get this far? Does it mean somehow there will be an upset and he will lose, so God spared her the sight of seeing his defeat? Or does it mean something else entirely?
Regardless of how each of us votes today, we are all infinitely and spiritually connected. Whichever way the coin toss lands, whichever story we start to tell tomorrow, we are one nation of infinite minds.
I know she is watching from beyond the clouds, supremely proud, completely at rest.