Shabbatt

Every Friday evening, on my way home from work the streets of Beverly Hills are dotted with men walking to Shabbatt. They dress in black or white, with little round caps. Some wear prayer shawls with tassels that jostle by their hips. My favorites are the fathers and sons. Tonight I saw two men, barrel-chested with bristly beards, walking with two small boys. Each boy wore all black, including a little black jacket zipped up to the chin. As they walked, each fit one hand snuggly into their fathers' palms.

They were walking to a synagogue I couldn't see. I knew it must be down the street or around the corner somewhere, but that ceased to be relevant. The suspension of their destination from my sight made their walk all the more sacred, as if the many steps between home and synagogue were the real worship, and the buildings on either end the bookends to their Sabbath.