Shul of my youth
They tore down my old synagogue last month without asking my permission. Maybe they didn’t ask me because, if they had, I would have told them “no.” No, you can’t bulldoze the bimah where my grandparents handed the Torah to my parents, who then handed it to me on the day of my bat mitzvah; no, you can’t sell the fourth-row pew where my family sat during the High Holy Days and Shabbat services; no, you can’t tear down the bathroom where my friends and I would fix our hair and apply strawberry-flavored Lip Smackers before flirting with our respective Hebrew-school crushes.