this won't be fair, and memory wanders, but:

This night five years ago we went to the worst Kol Nidre services in existence at USF, sat through expansion plans and money-grubbing and you complained your way home. Folding chairs, bright lights. The next day I biked through grey mid-morning to the Hillel house apartment. We hung around in jeans and talked fasting and food and movies and how Jews can indeed be atheists (a shock to our returnee from all-morning shul), played word games until Rachel complained of being left out (she grew up not writing on holidays), and as the afternoon drowsed on I leaned on your knee and sighed. So we got out and into your car before the sun set, off to get bagels and non-neon lox and get the Excellence ready for break-the-fast guests. Did I stay that night or did you drive me home? I don't remember. Was Tara there or was that Rosh Hashana, or both, or later? I don't remember that either. But tomorrow afternoon I will see the sun shining through your windshield on Fowler avenue and feel you squeeze my hand, just for a moment, and remember.

An easy fast, my dear. I miss you.