spd holiday series
Title: Rosh Hashanah
Fandom: Power Rangers SPD
Rating: K/G/general audience
Summary: Second in the Holiday series. Bridge celebrates Rosh Hashanah with his mother.
Disclaimer: I don't own him. I wish I did, but I don't.
Another Jewish day in the Jewish life of the ONLY (yes, I stress that a lot, because it kind of bothers me a little) Jewish Power Ranger.
Bridge knew he should have gone to shul with his mother. She’d gone to all the trouble of getting him his High Holy Days tickets and everything. Cruger and Kat had even told him he was welcome to take the time off and they would only call him if necessary, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not for Rosh Hashanah. Not this year, when the threat to the world was so great. He couldn’t wish a synagogue full of people a sweet new year and hope for inscription in the book of life when Gruumm loomed over their heads, wishing to enslave them all.
She’d gone on her own this year and done so having given him only a minimal guilt trip. He supposed that meant he was in the right. It really was serious, if even she was okay with him skipping out on shul for such an important day. So he’d patrolled near the shul, listening to the shofar from outside, and he’d done some research, filed reports. He’d studied both the imminent threat of Gruumm and the Hebrew prayers he knew his mother was reciting. And just before it was time for dinner, he left headquarters and drove to his mother’s house.
He was still in uniform and she’d changed from her nice service clothes to sweats, but he knew their attire didn’t matter. They were together and that’s what counted. They’d enjoyed a good meal, had far too much challah and tzimmes, and talked about holidays past, when the fate of the world hadn’t been in his hands. He supposed they ought to talk about the Rosh Hashanah’s yet to come, but he couldn’t bring himself to be hopeful for too many more new years. He was scared, and on what should be a hopeful holiday, he couldn’t bear to admit it.
So he’d gotten up and done the dishes instead. He’d cleaned the entire kitchen and wiped down the dining room table. He left his gloves on the kitchen counter. Being around only his mother, so practiced and skilled at holding back everything that could overwhelm him, had some distinct advantages. Finally out of things to clean, he went in search of her. He could hear her old cd player whirring outside and so he followed the sound. She was sitting on the grass in the back yard, staring up at the sky as it faded from blue to black with the setting sun. She’d put on her old recording of Avinu Malkeinu, Barbra Streisand’s emotional voice drifting on the wind.
Without a word, he sat down next to her and stretched his legs out. She handed him a glass of wine and paused the cd player. He took a sip and they sat in silence as stars began to dot the night sky. He held his breath. He knew he would hear it, if he was quiet enough. And sure enough, there it was, coming in on the gentle breeze. It was quiet, it was distant, but his mother’s house was close enough to the synagogue that in the quiet of the early evening, they could hear the last blasts of the shofar.
His mother offered him her plate of sliced apples and he took a few, dipping them in the bowl of honey. He licked the sticky sweetness off his fingers and smiled. That had always been his favourite part of the holiday. A sweet new year? Sure, he’d take it, if it meant he could spend an entire day eating sweets.
He looked at the profile of his mother. Her hair was greying, but still wild, and she had more wrinkles around her mouth and the corner of her eyes than he remembered. She was showing her age, finally, and he could see the stress of worry etched deep in her expression. He wondered how many nights she would come sit outside like this, staring up at the sky and praying to whatever power she still believed in to keep her child safe from the harm that threatened him, that threatened them all. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her, but he knew nothing he said would make her worry less, so he did the best thing he could. He just sat with her.
“Shana tova, Mama,” he whispered, still watching her. Her gaze remained fixed on the stars in the sky.
“Shana tova, Baby,” she replied. She took his bare hand in hers and he was flooded with all the love and hope she could send him. “For a better year.” Her voice was tight with emotion he knew she was trying to keep from him. He squeezed her hand, relishing in the physical contact. It was so rare anybody could control themselves enough to actually touch him and he cherished every single minute he could stand. For a better year, for everybody.
Fandom: Power Rangers SPD
Rating: K/G/general audience
Summary: Second in the Holiday series. Bridge celebrates Rosh Hashanah with his mother.
Disclaimer: I don't own him. I wish I did, but I don't.
Another Jewish day in the Jewish life of the ONLY (yes, I stress that a lot, because it kind of bothers me a little) Jewish Power Ranger.
Bridge knew he should have gone to shul with his mother. She’d gone to all the trouble of getting him his High Holy Days tickets and everything. Cruger and Kat had even told him he was welcome to take the time off and they would only call him if necessary, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not for Rosh Hashanah. Not this year, when the threat to the world was so great. He couldn’t wish a synagogue full of people a sweet new year and hope for inscription in the book of life when Gruumm loomed over their heads, wishing to enslave them all.
She’d gone on her own this year and done so having given him only a minimal guilt trip. He supposed that meant he was in the right. It really was serious, if even she was okay with him skipping out on shul for such an important day. So he’d patrolled near the shul, listening to the shofar from outside, and he’d done some research, filed reports. He’d studied both the imminent threat of Gruumm and the Hebrew prayers he knew his mother was reciting. And just before it was time for dinner, he left headquarters and drove to his mother’s house.
He was still in uniform and she’d changed from her nice service clothes to sweats, but he knew their attire didn’t matter. They were together and that’s what counted. They’d enjoyed a good meal, had far too much challah and tzimmes, and talked about holidays past, when the fate of the world hadn’t been in his hands. He supposed they ought to talk about the Rosh Hashanah’s yet to come, but he couldn’t bring himself to be hopeful for too many more new years. He was scared, and on what should be a hopeful holiday, he couldn’t bear to admit it.
So he’d gotten up and done the dishes instead. He’d cleaned the entire kitchen and wiped down the dining room table. He left his gloves on the kitchen counter. Being around only his mother, so practiced and skilled at holding back everything that could overwhelm him, had some distinct advantages. Finally out of things to clean, he went in search of her. He could hear her old cd player whirring outside and so he followed the sound. She was sitting on the grass in the back yard, staring up at the sky as it faded from blue to black with the setting sun. She’d put on her old recording of Avinu Malkeinu, Barbra Streisand’s emotional voice drifting on the wind.
Without a word, he sat down next to her and stretched his legs out. She handed him a glass of wine and paused the cd player. He took a sip and they sat in silence as stars began to dot the night sky. He held his breath. He knew he would hear it, if he was quiet enough. And sure enough, there it was, coming in on the gentle breeze. It was quiet, it was distant, but his mother’s house was close enough to the synagogue that in the quiet of the early evening, they could hear the last blasts of the shofar.
His mother offered him her plate of sliced apples and he took a few, dipping them in the bowl of honey. He licked the sticky sweetness off his fingers and smiled. That had always been his favourite part of the holiday. A sweet new year? Sure, he’d take it, if it meant he could spend an entire day eating sweets.
He looked at the profile of his mother. Her hair was greying, but still wild, and she had more wrinkles around her mouth and the corner of her eyes than he remembered. She was showing her age, finally, and he could see the stress of worry etched deep in her expression. He wondered how many nights she would come sit outside like this, staring up at the sky and praying to whatever power she still believed in to keep her child safe from the harm that threatened him, that threatened them all. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her, but he knew nothing he said would make her worry less, so he did the best thing he could. He just sat with her.
“Shana tova, Mama,” he whispered, still watching her. Her gaze remained fixed on the stars in the sky.
“Shana tova, Baby,” she replied. She took his bare hand in hers and he was flooded with all the love and hope she could send him. “For a better year.” Her voice was tight with emotion he knew she was trying to keep from him. He squeezed her hand, relishing in the physical contact. It was so rare anybody could control themselves enough to actually touch him and he cherished every single minute he could stand. For a better year, for everybody.