Today I have a date with my mother. I'll meet her in the pews at the synagogue where I'll say Yisskur. My grief will meet me too, for it arises during prayer as if it's our first time together.
As awful as grief is, there's something so alive and free about crying fresh, hard tears. I remember when my father passed away, my friend Marlene told me, "Enjoy your grief." I understood immediately, one day the pain would lift, and with that relief, my connection to my father would fade.
Today, I'm not sad. Although I have a distinct wish to recapture a Yom Kippur past, in fact a very specific ritual. After the shofar was blown, signifying the end of the 24-hour fast, my mother and I raced home from shul. As we ran, my mother lit the cigarette hidden in her glove. At home, we prepared the table with delectable foods. We licked the salt off our fingers from the Nova Scotia lox, the white fish that fell out of its ripply golden skin.
I miss running home with my mother, waving to my father across the pews, gathering with my girlfriends in front of a synagogue to look for boys. I miss not knowing what the future will hold.
Followers
