I’ve always believed that writing is one of the things that heals me the most, and right now it’s the only thing that comes to mind. Today is the first night of Rosh Hashanah, a night traditionally celebrated with family, around an abundant table, ready to begin the new Jewish year full of strength and happiness. Every year my mother and I spend hours in the kitchen, digging through my grandmother’s recipes and adapting them to our own style. Time flies when we’re standing there with dirty aprons, surrounded by smells that fill us with memories and nostalgia. Those same smells make my father come down and taste from every pot simmering on the stove. After sampling the food and giving his approval, he starts to wonder if there will be enough for all the guests, and ends up pulling two more trays of chicken and five extra potatoes from the freezer. In case you were wondering, there are always leftovers, but his philosophy is that this way he has food for the whole week. After changing the kitchen plans, to make up for it, he helps set the table and bring down more chairs from upstairs so that we all fit. That’s when the great debate begins: How do we arrange the tables and chairs so that we can all fit and still eat comfortably? The discussion lasts for a while, and just in case there weren’t enough opinions, my brother pops in and adds his own perspective. In the end, we always find a solution.

We decorate the table and place each of the symbols present on this night: abundance, sweetness, wisdom… The evening begins, we all come downstairs dressed up, and my father and brother compliment us on the beautiful table we’ve set. My brother tries to take a little credit for putting out the silverware, but his contribution pretty much ends there. The guests start arriving, and the house begins to fill up. Between conversations and hugs, my mother announces that the food is getting cold and urges everyone to take their seats.

My brother and my father, with the melodies passed down from generation to generation, recite the kiddush and the berachot. Then, twenty dishes start coming out, and with our stomachs full, conversations begin to flow. Laughter, memories, my brother and I commenting on how the evening is unfolding, and finally my father’s words thanking my mother and me for the delicious food.

This year, the Rosh Hashanah table will have a big absence. Tonight, my brother will be missing from that table. I won’t have him next to me to comment on the conversations happening around us, nor will we hear his opinion about how to arrange the table. This year won’t be like all the others, but it will be one where we feel especially proud of why that seat is empty.

Tonight, while we sit around the beautiful table, my brother will be in Israel, fighting to protect our loved ones and to ensure that we always have a homeland. Tonight, we look at that empty seat with pride. Tonight, we’ll eat double the apple with honey, so that he, too, may have a sweet year. My father will recite the kiddush, and my mother and I will probably cry, holding each other as we remember when my brother recited it. This year will be different. I’m lucky that even though my brother can’t be physically with us in Barcelona, I know he’s taking care of himself in Israel. But today I think about all those families who have an empty seat at the table forever, or who still live with the uncertainty of whether those seats will ever be filled again. This year, there have been many losses, many families left incomplete, and many Rosh Hashanah tables that will never again be filled with the same joy and abundance as before. Tonight is a very hard night for many.

But tonight we also close one year and begin another one with the hope of something better to come.

During this year I have learned a lot. I’ve learned to give thanks for every single day, to be brave and strong. I’ve learned that sometimes you have to make decisions even with uncertainty of what comes next. I’ve learned to push myself every day, to accept that perfection doesn’t exist and that “good” is sometimes enough. A year in which I learned to be independent and how hard that can sometimes be. A year in which I learned how painful goodbyes can be when you’re surrounded by such special people. A year in which I also learned the value of laughter. A year in which I met many people who will forever remain with me. A year to remember.

My mother always told me since I was little that I was born with the Tekiah of the shofar. That’s why, for me, Rosh Hashanah has always symbolized birth: the birth of a new year, a year with better news for everyone, with fewer losses, a year with more reunions, more hugs, and more laughter. The birth of a year full of growth and strength. The birth of a year filled with good news for everyone.

Shana Tova! For a better beginning!