This evening at the Yom HaZicaron memorial service, my son asked a lot of questions.
‘Who is that boy?’ ‘Who is he talking about?’ ‘His older brother died?’
He asked me to explain what every speaker was talking about. I did.
It made me strongly consider how I’ll look back fondly in thirteen years at this time, at this moment while he is sitting on my lap, his little boy face gazing toward the dark stage, his ears perked up, his eyelids eventually drooping closed, this little boy cuddled in my lap, our legs intertwined,
these moments when he was just a little boy asking questions.