I sat in Connie’s funeral at Temple Bet Havarim, in the very last row. I wanted to be close to the restroom exit, and close enough to a wall socket to plug in a heating pad. I wanted to be out of everyone’s sight-line. Don’t let my handicaps and tics become a distraction.
I like to sit by the door. I like to play Klondike Solitaire on my phone, to settle my nerves, and I could tell Connie’s funeral might trigger a hot streak. I changed the Solitaire app settings, to deliver “Only Winnable Games.” My thwart level must remain low.
The Temple volunteers accommodated my seating arrangements and bags of props. They were kind, considering their other duties. Three of them (one in turquoise platform heels) had to manually lock and unlock the doors for each visitor. They’d been getting death threats since the Squirrel Hill massacre.
They welcomed at least two hundred of Connie’s grieving friends and relatives. I’d never been to a synagogue before.
You could say the same about Conni…
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