The Rebbe's face is white on the bimah, in a sea of thousands in white and black. 770 is silent. It is so quiet that a paper cup falling from a table could be heard among the gathered seven thousand chasidim.
My brother Moishy pushes me closer so I have a clear view above the hats of Israelis standing on the bench in front of us. We are standing together on three milk boxes which we chained to the bench before yom tov.
There is a white light in the wordless room. The souls united creates a vacuum. All faces are glued to the Rebbe.
מן המיצר קראתי קה, the Rebbe's plaintive voice beseeching, in a low voice; a beckoning from son to father, from the vacuum to the light.
ענני במרחב קה, the Rebbe's voice is crying through the words, though all we hear are the words.
טוב טעם ודעת למדני, כי במצותיך האמניתי
The Rebbe's voice fills the room, but not a loud voice; koil demomoh dakoh, a still small voice. Others write about the exact intonation, or the exact way in which the Rebbe moved the handkerchiefs, but what I remember is the still holy voice and a room filed with the bright light of creation.
We were learning the maimorim about the world being recreated through the Shofar and now it was happening.
The sound of the shofar from the Rebbe was unlike any sound I ever heard. The pitch was low, each moment a cry from the universal soul. The sound was so low, you cannot imagine the silence required of the gathered 7000. But you could hear the still low wail of the Rebbe's shofar in every corner of 770.
And all of us can hear it today, as I hear it now as I write these words.
Yet words will never capture it.
To have seen and beheld.