In the exiled world, Jews havephone calls and Facebook to keep upwith yontifs and life eventsIn New York I come up empty. A funeral acrossBoro Park, streets shut off, Hasidim rend clothesand scream to Shomayim. In ManhattanI heard nothing. I davened minchabetween meetings, prayed to my food andnobody caught it but me and G-d.Work is a joke, it possesses me all day then fliesback to its lair, but I like it. I’m unharmed. I’m fine with this tradeoff. On the trainI consider writing a poem but Netflixwins out. I just started Shtisel and need to seeif the husband comes home. Next to mestands a Hasid, a real one, in penguin clothesclutching his phone to his heart like a siddur.He’s two episodes ahead of me. I watch an actormime a blessing over kugel, try to lip-readto see if he gets it right. Amen, I whisper, soft enoughfor me to hear, for him, for us three.