The next day, in a sudden act of compassion, I decided to visit Jonathan instead of going directly home. Fifteen minutes on the bus and I was on his block, a large tree lined street with old Spanish style buildings evenly spaced and matching in color. His home blended so well with the others that I missed it my first time going down the block. The sunlight bounced off the large white walls and small yellow butterflies danced merrily from large red and pink roses.

It all seemed so picturesque, so happy. The large knocker on his oak front door groaned as I picked it up and fell with the dull thud of metal striking wood, and was met by the even emptier face of Jonathan’s mother as she opened the front door.

“Come in,” she said weakly.

The room was large and dark and large yellow sheets draped from the walls once covered with shinning mirrors. In the center of room sat my friend Jonathan and his younger brother Dave on low stools.

Jonathan looked up, a forced smile cracking his somber face,

“It’s nice to see you . . .”

“It’s nice to see you as well . . .” I returned.

I spent the rest of the day at Jonathan’s house; we spoke about sports, reminisced over favorite books, anything to get us away from the gloomy room and its yellow sheets. As the day waned new guests arrived, Orthodox Jews coming for the evening prayers. The Rabbi entered, his long frock-coat, black hat and red face framed with a thick peppered beard, seemed to take him right out of the shtetl. His cell-phone rang,

“Hello . . . Yah, I hear you . . . Listen, e-mail me the list and I’ll get back to you –I need to Daven now.”

-So much for coming out of the shtetl.

The prayers began.

At some point during the confusion of amen’s and other biblical babble a prayer book was shoved in my hands. As looked blindly at the thick black letters floating on the sea of yellowed pages, I became aware of how silent the room became. I realized that I too was now floating amongst a sea of black bobbing bodies in the yellow sheets of the room. My stomach turned with an audible groan, breaking the silence of the prayers. An uncomfortable feeling grew in me, as my Jewish illiteracy came to a blaring forefront. In vain I tried to compensate by sway my body to the ancient rhythm of the prayers, a rhythm that all but I seemed to hear. My own supplications, instead, poured forth to G-d above.

“I’m sorry,” I prayed, “I’m sorry that I can no longer make out the letters of Your tongue. When I leave here, I promise that I’ll learn again.”

The prayers ended, the doorbell rang, and dinner was delivered. I’m not sure if at when exactly, but at some point between the bagels and cream cheese and the pita with falafel I seemed to forget my promise, leaving it behind with yellow sheets in the room. The One to whom I made my promise, however, remembered.