September 15, 2010

On the bookshelf right beside the door to my bedroom, I kept passing by the big red book my father had used to teach me for my Bat Mitzvah. I treasured this book. It was my most precious inheritance from my father. I knew it was time to start teaching Noa for her Bat Mitzvah. She was almost 12. Two years earlier I had taught Adi for his Bar Mitzvah from this same book. It was such a joy and an honor to be able to teach him all that my father had taught me. And now it was Noa’s turn to learn, but I was too scared to teach her. Every time I passed that red book I’d try to avert my gaze as if I could feel its eyes on me, saying, “So, what are you waiting for?” Noa and I were both engaged in a denial dance. Every now and then I’d ask her halfheartedly if she wanted to study with me and she’d say no. And every now and then she’d bring up the subject of her Bat Mitzvah and ask if she could do some sort of abbreviated service and I’d say no.