And there we sat, you and I, for the next six Yom Kippurim — a wonderful “table shidduch”

To My Former Yom Kippur Tablemate:

I remember the first time I davened next to you, at the same table. Six months prior, I had moved into an apartment in our out-of-town community. As an “older single” in my mid-twenties, I appreciated the opportunity to live on my own while remaining within driving distance of my parents. I remember that first Tishrei. My traditionally observant parents really wanted me to join their Rosh Hashanah dinners. Ever the dutiful daughter, I complied. But Yom Kippur? Yom Kippur was mine to do with what I pleased, and I knew exactly where I wanted to go: our local yeshivah minyan.

I walked in to the women’s section, unsure where to sit. Then I saw you come in.

I knew you were younger than I was, but I’d met you at community events and was always impressed by your middos and insights when we chatted. Was it weird for a 20-something to sit with a high schooler? I knew your mother would join the table as well, so I decided to give it a try. You had already started davening, but you smiled warmly to let me know that a seat was available.

And there we sat, you and I, for the next six Yom Kippurim — a wonderful “table shidduch.” Your kavanah was unattainable for me, but I’d like to say I tried. When I’d want to sit for a moment, I’d glance over at you and find renewed strength. Did you ever sit down? I would cry at times as the years went on and I was still single. And I saw you get emotional sometimes, though I wouldn’t guess what was on your mind. Year after year, there we sat, each of us feeding off of the other’s concentration. Whenever your mother joined us, I saw her watching you with pride.

I moved away a few years after turning 30, as I thought living in a bigger community might help me meet my bashert. Six months later, I heard the wonderful news — you were engaged to an extended family member of someone in the kehillah. And, baruch Hashem, I got engaged soon after your wedding. You and I stayed in touch, and I enjoyed seeing your smiling face next to your chassan’s in the pictures you shared.

And then, two years later, I heard the horrible news: Your marriage had ended. When I saw your latest pictures, I understood why. I was shocked. What had happened? It was still your smiling face, but with a whole new set of friends — and no one looked religious, or even Jewish. I approached a mutual friend of ours, not knowing how or what to ask. She said, very sadly, that she knew you’d made changes, but you’d cut off contact with her and our other friends as soon as your new life began.

I wondered why you still shared your pictures with me. I remember thinking maybe you just forgot to remove me with the others. But maybe you didn’t. Maybe you valued our connection over Yom Tov, as I did. Maybe I’d even have a way to reach you, no matter how far you’d gone. But then I saw a new set of wedding photos, and I knew it would be close to impossible.

And so, my dear, former tablemate, here we are, approaching another Yom Kippur. Thank G-d, I have small children now, so I’m lucky if I chap shofar on Rosh Hashanah at 10:30 a.m. But occasionally, I’ll get a chance to actually daven Shemoneh Esreh at shul, and I’ll flash back to our days at that table. What do you do on Yom Kippur? Do you ever remember standing there (not sitting!), davening, seemingly oblivious to anything but the shaliach tzibbur’s voice? Will you ever come back there again? Because I daven for you, dear friend, and I’ll be the first one to sit at your table when you do return.

Love,

Your Former Tablemate

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 914)