Fringe

I sit with my father on the bench seats of the synagogue, tight against him, as on these high holy days it is crowded. I am, perhaps, eight years old. The long fringe of his prayer shawl, tallit, lies across my thigh and knee. I smooth it out, twist it around my finger and plait the pair of four woollen strands. I untwist it and start again, my head down, concentrating on the task. Now, as I sit in synagogue, I pull the fringe of my tallit through my fingers, as if the physical memory will summon my father back, more tangibly than Yizchor, the memorial service, more evocatively than the concluding keening sound of the Shofar.