And with the same degree of reservation I conjure up when people ask me how life is in Hong Kong, I give my mother enough detail to know that we are taken care of, but I don’t belabor the joys of celebrating with our warm community and closest of friends. Since moving to a retirement community a few years ago, away from my childhood home, my parents are still “shul shopping” and can’t seem to find one that fits quite right. To speak of how grounded we are in our shul and the sense of permanence I have sitting in the same seat each Shabbat as well as for the chaggim now seems unfair. Nor do I belabor that for the first night of Rosh Hashanah we have gone to the same friends’ home every year since we moved here. It’s where we spend Sukkot and Pesach as well.
My mom sounds far away today as she fills me in on Dad’s recovery and her Rosh Hashanah menu while she juggles doctor’s visits and also helps take care of my brother’s children.
After we speak, I walk silently, taking in the views. I still can’t help but notice them. I can see the hospital where my son was born and our first apartment. Through the subtropical verdant foliage, I can see the South China Sea and outlying islands. When I emerge at the bottom, I will be able to see our 113-year old synagogue. What I don’t see are my father’s stitches or the long winters that will become increasingly harder for my parents as they age.
As I run down, I can’t help but feel just a bit selfish – I get to call Hong Kong home.
