I stand by the window half-asleep, the brachos wafting in with the wind

"Maaaa! The tatties are taking their shoes off already! Are you coming?”

“Coming, coming, zeeskeit.” I wash my hands and stumble to the front window, where my daughter is sitting on the back of the couch by the open window.

Her hair is wild and her velour pajamas tell of a self-serve breakfast. Thankfully, it’s only yogurt.

“Yevarechecha!”

“Yevarechecha!”

“They’re giving us a brachah, right, Mommy?”

“Right. Shhhh. And you’re not supposed to look at them.” She closes her eyes for a brief moment before sticking her head out the window again.

“V’yishmerecha!”

“You’re giving us a brachah, right?” she hollers to the men below.

“Shhhhh!”

I’m teary but can’t quite place the déjà vu. I run my fingers through her messy hair and down her back. My tichel is askew and my thin cotton nightgown is doing nothing for the wind wafting in.

“And after the brachah is all finished, it’s gonna be time for everyone to get dressed, right Mommy?”

My voice is too husky to reply.

I’ve been receiving this awesome brachah every day for over a year now, from the minyan that’s become a fixture in the parking lot of my building, on behalf of an immunocompromised older neighbor living on the ground floor.

I behold and am beholden. Every single day.