It’s Yom Kippur afternoon. Benson and I are attending services at Havurat Shalom, the alternative Jewish community to which we belong. The services are held in a large old house that the community owns in Somerville, MA. It’s a beautiful fall day and sunlight streams through the windows.
But we are somber. Yizkor is a service for the dead. We say prayers for them and ask that they be granted atonement, along with the rest of the community. Traditionally, Yizkor prayers are said only for close family members who have passed away – mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, daughters, sons. Prayers are also said for Jewish martyrs and for the six million who perished in the Holocaust. But we are not a traditional community, and this afternoon we are saying prayers for anyone who has passed away and should be remembered. We are offered an opportunity to say something to the group about our lost loved ones. People recall friends, grandparents, lovers.
I find myself raising my hand, asking for a turn to speak. I talk about the two children who might have been if I had not had abortions when I was younger. I don’t repudiate my actions, but I confess my sorrow at the loss of these two possible persons. I express my deep commitment to a woman’s right to choose, while acknowledging that there is real loss involved. Roads not taken. Relationships not chosen.
I will continue to think of these two lost people during Yizkor services for many years to come, long after Benson and I have left the community and joined a suburban synagogue.