Saturday, April 13, 2019

Sabbath morning at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers: Only nine men show up. We need ten for the service to continue. The one boy there is just short of bar mitzvah age. There's been a debate as to whether this is a circumstance in which he can be counted. The consensus is that he can't. He and his father (who doesn't seem too engaged, and is reading a newspaper tucked behind his prayer book) quickly head out, followed by others. They're walking to the next nearest synagogue, officially called "the congregation of the young." Since few young people worship there either, they refer to it by the name of its street. On my way home, I see people setting up for a party in the park. A half-ring of folding chairs bends around a pair of picnic tablecloths on the ground. A woman walks up carrying a large bouquet of balloons, looking uncertain where to attach them. When I walk past again in the evening, only a few of the balloons, semi-deflated, remain. Dogs halfheartedly nose them along the ground until, losing interest, they return to sniffing each other instead.