The mirrors are covered. They have been covered for seven days, hidden behind sheets and dark cloths so that those left behind cannot look at themselves. In the Jewish tradition of shiva, the ritual of mourning, this is a calculated mercy. When your world has been shattered by gunfire on a quiet city street, the last thing you want to see is the hollow, unrecognizable reflection of your own face.
For a week, the floor has been the only place that made sense. Mourners sit on low stools or directly on the hardwood, physically brought low by the weight of an abrupt absence. Outside, Montreal is moving through its usual rhythm—the hum of traffic, the chill of the wind, the distant laughter of people who still possess all their pieces. Inside, time has frozen.
But today, the seven days are over.
The tradition demands that the mourners finally stand up. They must walk outside, take a symbolic stroll around the block, and signal to the world, and to themselves, that the deepest period of isolation has ended. The door opens. The cold air hits their faces.
But how do you walk back into a city that suddenly feels hostile?
The Mechanics of the Silence
When a tragedy makes the evening news, it is usually reduced to a set of cold coordinates. A street corner. A time stamp. A body count. The competitor headlines read like police blotters: Montreal memorial marks end of shiva for shooting victim. It is clean. It is efficient. It tells you everything about what happened, and absolutely nothing about what it feels like.
It does not tell you about the food.
During shiva, the bereaved do not cook. The community pours into the house, carrying plastic containers of kugel, bagels, and endless trays of fruit. It is a beautiful, overwhelming manifestation of grief. But look closer at the kitchen counter. See the stacks of Tupperware multiplying like a quiet, agonizing tally of how many people felt sorry for you today. Every time the doorbell rings, it is a reminder of a hole that cannot be filled by casseroles.
Consider the physics of a crowded room that is simultaneously completely empty.
Neighbors whisper in the corners. Elders nod knowingly, recalling other losses, other griefs from other decades. There is a specific vocabulary used in these rooms, a dialect of shared sorrow. People say Baruch Dayan HaEmet—Blessed is the True Judge—a phrase meant to surrender human understanding to a higher power.
Yet, beneath the religious fortitude, there is a raw, terrifying confusion. Why him? Why here? Why now?
The Boundary of the Block
The walk around the block is not a victory lap. It is an excruciating transition.
Imagine stepping over the threshold of your home for the first time since the world ended. The pavement looks exactly the same as it did a week ago. The neighbors’ cars are still parked in the same spots. This continuity feels like an insult. The universe did not stop when the trigger was pulled, and that realization is a secondary trauma all its own.
As the small procession of family members moves down the sidewalk, they form a fragile human chain against the noise of the city. This is the moment where private agony intersects with public space. Passersby stop and stare. Some look away quickly, uncomfortable with the nakedness of grief on display. Others offer a solemn nod, recognizing the universal uniform of the brokenhearted: dark clothes, tired eyes, and a slow, hesitant stride.
This ritualistic walk serves a psychological purpose that predates modern therapy. It forces the mourner to physically re-engage with reality. You cannot stay in the darkened room forever. The sheets must eventually come off the mirrors. The low chairs must be put back in the closet. The world demands your return, even if you are returning as a ghost of your former self.
The Invisible Stakes of Community
What happens when the shiva ends is often more dangerous than the week itself.
During the seven days, you are surrounded. You are never alone with the silence. There is always a hand on your shoulder, a fresh cup of tea placed in front of you, a story being told about the person who is gone. The house is a fortress of solidarity.
Tomorrow, the fortress vanishes.
The visitors will go back to their jobs, their families, and their routines. The phone will ring less frequently. The fridge, once bursting with community offerings, will slowly empty out. This is where the true test of a community lies. The memorial service at the end of shiva is not a closing chapter; it is merely the end of the preface.
The real story of survival happens in the weeks that follow, when the house is quiet, the mirrors are uncovered, and the reflection looking back at you is older, sadder, and entirely alone.
The walk around the block has ended. The mourners step back inside, but they do not close the door the way they used to. They leave it a fraction of an inch ajar, waiting to see if the city they just walked through will offer justice, or only more silence.
