…I prayed for my baby, that he be inscribed in the Book of Life. I still remember how I felt a flutter of doubt about not fasting on Yom Kippur, a fleeting thought that I might bring bad fortune upon myself for not fasting, even though I had a medical reason.
As the weeks after Yom Kippur passed, I forgot about my fears. My belly grew; the ultrasound photos showed our little one happily sucking his thumb; the seasons changed.
It was later that we learned that he would not live. During the memorial service, I thought back to the High Holy Days. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written and on Yom Kippur, it is sealed, who shall live and who shall die. All these years later, I sit here with tears as I write for the first time about that Rosh Hashanah. I remember the innocence, the pure joy I felt as I celebrated, not knowing that my baby would never make it to the bimah the next year.