On Succos, we gather our crops, reflect on our harvest. In life, we gather our experiences, appreciate what we’ve gained

There’s Simon and Susan and Morris and me. Siblings. Misfits in a world where families comprised one father, one mother, and two children. But we were one father who’d lost his precious wife, one grandmother who’d lost her beloved daughter, and four children, all mocked at school as odd. So we stuck together.

Our memories are intertwined: bike rides through the streets, fishing for tadpoles, Sunday car rides on which Dad would claim to be lost, vacations on which we tramped through rain-swept hills and explored rock pools.

Time wove divergent paths for each of us. We drifted apart, four siblings leading four very different lifestyles.

I have chasunahs overflowing with bochurim, grandsons who look like angelic girls, and a whole tribe of grandchildren of every age. We live overlooking the hills where Avraham Avinu walked. Shabbos is an oasis of peace in our busy week.

I’ve always been closest to Simon. While he wasn’t religious, our families would spend the chagim together. His wife would sometimes join me to make biscuits and challah for Shabbos. Before coronavirus, he’d begun to go shul on Shabbos, reveling in the atmosphere and the new ideas he heard.