You remember last year, and the year before, when you’d pleaded: Please, may next year be different

It’s that time of year again. Only this year, you’ve done nothing to prepare..

Not one shiur. Not one sefer. There’s been far too much going on, and suddenly, it’s Erev Yom Kippur, and you’re shocked at how it crept up. You realize you’ve even forgotten to do Tashlich and head off to the brook.

When you get home, it’s time to do kapparos. Taking down the Yom Kippur machzor is hard. You remember last year, and the year before, when you’d pleaded: Please, may next year be different. But here you are again. Same old place, same old person, same old machzor.

The day passes in a blur of speaking to others, wishing them a meaningful taanis, dropping off tzedakah, eating and drinking. It’s basically Yom Tov. You throw on some makeup, find a pair of shoes, go down for the seudah. Then, two candles herald a new day.

You arrive in shul with your mother and wend you way to your seat in the back left. Your heart shrivels as you see you have a new neighbor, an obvious newlywed, playing with her sheitel, staring at her rings. Of all the places in the shul, Hashem, why here, why me? Her machzor creaks as it opens; it’s pristinely white. You look back at your tear-stained interlinear and try to refocus. It’s Yom Kippur’s beginnings, full of potential.