(When I was thirteen, a boy from my synagogue, a friend of mine, passed away from complications from hemophilia.)
This time of year, I hear your voice. It is high and sweet. It is the voice of a young boy whose voice never changed to that of a man.
I remember you, sitting next to me, praying next to me, singing liturgy I did not know, melodies whose beauty did not come from the cantor on the bima, but from my friend, singing beside me.
There must have been others our age. I know there were young children. You and I led their service, you playing cantor to my rabbi. The two of us worked in unrehearsed harmony, my knowledge coming from having watched my father, yours from years of prayer.
I remember other times with you, of course. I remember talking on the phone, laughing when your mother decided to "clean the phone" during one of our conversations. I remember dancing with you at a party for Israel's Independence day.
But mostly, I remember your voice on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, praying for forgiveness for sins you did not commit and for mercy you did not receive.
In memory of Stephen Orne
This time of year, I hear your voice. It is high and sweet. It is the voice of a young boy whose voice never changed to that of a man.
I remember you, sitting next to me, praying next to me, singing liturgy I did not know, melodies whose beauty did not come from the cantor on the bima, but from my friend, singing beside me.
There must have been others our age. I know there were young children. You and I led their service, you playing cantor to my rabbi. The two of us worked in unrehearsed harmony, my knowledge coming from having watched my father, yours from years of prayer.
I remember other times with you, of course. I remember talking on the phone, laughing when your mother decided to "clean the phone" during one of our conversations. I remember dancing with you at a party for Israel's Independence day.
But mostly, I remember your voice on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, praying for forgiveness for sins you did not commit and for mercy you did not receive.
In memory of Stephen Orne
