I’ll leave the door open for the angels just in case

I am standing in the kitchen with salt on my hands and the heat of the day still clinging to my skin. A bowl of apricots sits on the counter, bright and bursting.

Somewhere upstairs in the building, a child is laughing. Somewhere across the city, someone is still crying.

It’s nearly Shabbat in Jerusalem.

The sun is softening the city’s sharp edges.

The kind of light that makes the stones look golden and the wounds feel fresh.

I’m not dressed in white. There are dishes in the sink. I’m not sure I believe in angels.

But still — I hear them.

Shalom Aleichem malachei hashalom…
Peace be upon you, angels of peace…

I used to sing this song without thinking. A melody you learn by heart before you know what it means. But now, it catches in my throat. Because what kind of angels let this happen? What kind of peace arrives to a city trembling on the edge, again?

And yet —
Boachem l’shalom…
Come in peace.

I set the table anyway.

Not out of faith, but out of defiance. Not because I feel holy, but because I need to feel whole. Even for a moment.

Even if it’s pretend.

I pour wine. I fold napkins the way my mother did — as if I’m folding prayers into them. I think of the other mothers who won’t cook tonight. The fathers who are sitting beside empty beds. The hostages who are not home. The lovers who parted without goodbye.

And still, the words rise:
Tzeitchem l’shalom…
Go in peace, messengers of peace.

Maybe that’s what Shabbat is. Not an escape. Not a cure. But a container. A frame around the chaos. A breath between the screams.

Tonight, we will sing around the table. Maybe off-key. Maybe with tears. Maybe by route. Maybe by heart.

But we will sing. And when we do, we’ll summon something ancient — not to fix us, but remind us.

Because even shattered hearts deserve peace. Even salt-stung hands can serve a sacred meal.

And even if I no longer believe in angels, I still leave the door open.

Just in case.