I wonder if your soul is still dispossessed

This was a strange Rosh Hashanah and it feels like a stranger Yom Kippur. Last year it was the eve of my birthday, which I would spend at two different museums before meeting my family after sunset for break-fast. This year I lit the yahrzeit candle we bought six months ago when we were what we then called apocalypse-shopping: it burns for the dead whose names we remember, whose names we don't know. Year after year now, I return to the story of the prayer and the fire and the place in the forest, because all we can do these days is tell the story; it has to be enough. And if it isn't, we tell it anyway.