My son sprinted to each traffic light in his black hat and dark Sabbath suit while the elderly congregation two miles away waited for him to help lead morning prayers. Moments earlier, after my final attempt to wake him, I stood at the bottom of the steps, unleashing dire predictions about how he’d fare in yeshiva high school the following year — until his mother whispered in his ear, and suddenly he was in the foyer, putting on a scarf and a coat, then running full stride past the mini-mart and corner gas station and doubling back until I’d caught up to him, reminding me of a loyal pet or the buttonhook play my father called in our backyard football huddle: Run straight out, then turn back. The ball will be waiting for you. A week earlier I’d screamed through the bathroom door, a rehash of the year’s arguments softened by a thousand wooden fibers between us, the way, the mystics say, Divine severity filters through countless intervening worlds before it reaches us in diminished measure. Oh, the terrible words I’d said about things he couldn’t help, his belief that we’d get there sooner walking this way. And now he is crossing the bridge over the Hackensack River’s dingy waters, Saturday-morning traffic swooshing by, wind stinging my eyes, and I run ahead to catch up with him.