We’re aching for what we had, pre-coronavirus, when we didn’t know how lucky we were

Rosh Hashanah, 2010

I’m in the guest bedroom of my daughter’s apartment in London. The glare of the clock in the darkness reads 4:02 a.m.

It’s “one of those days,” sorrow making its claim on my body — chest tight, head weighted.

“Let the year end with all its curses.” Eleven months ago, at the opening of this new year, our son, Yossi, drowned.

“Let the new year begin with all its blessings.” Ten days ago, as the year prepared to close, our daughter gave birth to a son and named him after Yossi.

The apartment feels too small for the bigness of today. I need to move, to think. I crouch by my suitcase, run my hands blindly over the folds of clothing, pull out a shirt and a skirt — can’t tell if they match — and scrabble under the bed for my shoes.

The hallway is quiet, which means the baby and his exhausted parents are asleep.

I open the front door and step out into the fresh air. The door clicks shut behind me, and that’s when I realize I don’t have the key.

The city of London is black. Even the glow of the streetlights is dulled by fog. I shiver. Not from cold.

A new year without Yossi.

What if I can’t go on without him?

What if I don’t want to?