Writing Exercise #1

The air inside the car is cool, and the upholstery, beige, maroon, green, ugly, is fuzzy. I run my hand over and over and over in mild agitation...
We always park down the road and across the street. I am not looking forward to the place I am going but am glad that I am going there, anyway, it is the right thing to do, and I know I would feel worse if I skip it. I slide on the plain black flats, which I discarded once in the car. I step out onto the sidewalk of Troy and close the car door, my back to the old bowling alley. I feel mildly self-conscious in the pouffy beige skirt which rustles in the wind and black shell-and-cardigan set -- definitely not what I would wear voluntarily.
The wind flutters the hair of me and my family as our dress shoes clip-clap-clip quickly across the sidewalk; we are late. We walk past the storefronts, a butcher's shop, a comical gift store with letters on the door spelling "NOPE," a scrambling of the usual greeting. Crossing the street, I see down the road in one direction black asphalt and buildings, more high-society than the places on the other side of town. Down in the other direction, tall, rectangular, squashed-together city apartments, their color washed out. We cross the street and smile at the suit-clad door-opening congregants. "Happy New Year," we exchange. Above us, the tall, ornately decorated, beautiful sanctuary part of the synagogue rises. We walk through the wide, maroon door and greet more congregants (why are they here, just waiting for latecomers? Did they grow tired of the service already?).
Of course, being late, and not inclined to stay the whole hours-long service, we are seated downstairs from the sanctuary to watch the rabbi and cantor conduct the service by means of a television screen which films them upstairs. To our right is the kitchen, with its kosher sinks and huge refrigerator, and farther on is the Trope, Sunday, and Hebrew School classrooms. I can hear the singing and chanting wafting from the upstairs. We sit.
Our rabbi, smiling, talks and leads and chants from the bimah which we watch on the screen, and we follow her lead..."We recite the Amidah on page 37 of the blue siddur..." The cantor's rich, vibrant, loud and incredibly powerful opera-worthy voice comes down from upstairs, rattling my eardrums and forcing me to suppress a giggle. Behind them both I see the ark. Across its top, "In Memoriam" of a boy who had a fatal canoe accident is written in gilded letters. On the sides, the illusion of golden columns is created by bending stripes of golden paint. On either side of the ark, seven-spoked electric candelabras are; and hanging from the top of the ark, in which the Torahs are held, is the electric eternally burning light.
In what seems a short time, we decide to leave. As we leave, we vow to stay for the whole service next Rosh Hashana. We would return in thirteen days for Yom Kippur.