It was under the guidance
Of a cantor whose vibrato shook the floor
And a rabbi with a beard longer than the Ashrei
That I got my first taste of temple,
Its Hebrew bitter to my untrained tongue
And its mysteries swirling in my clueless mind
In the safety of sacred walls, I was mesmerized
By the rows and rows of dark green siddurim
That stretched across the splintering benches like ivy
And crowning every head were colorful kippot
That rivaled the intricate stained glass panels
Tinting the temple in a soft rainbow hue
It was where the beads from my bat mitzvah dress
Scattered down the dusty carpeted stairs,
Where growling stomachs made the music on Yom Kippur,
Where hot drops of wax fell on my hand during havdalah
And where I hoped to don a lacy white gown
Like my mother, her mother, and her mother had
But now the crow’s-feet by my eyes are simply wrinkles,
The new siddurim look more like books than ivy,
And my old mentors were replaced by unfamiliar faces
As no amount of rainbow-stained nostalgia
Or prayers spoken in perfect Hebrew
Can change the fact that my temple isn’t my home anymore.
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