Smelling like a freshly baked streusel cake, she got down on her knees and hugged me close. Looking into my eyes with her wise and knowing bright blue ones, she seemed to see deep into my soul. Dancing into her kitchen, she hummed words of Psalms as she prepared my snack. My mind wandered. When are my cousins picking me up? We will have so much fun together. I can come back here later.
Animating the stories from Tanach (the Bible) she was telling, she winked at me as she kept my sisters entertained on the way to the park. Clapping her hands, she beamed as the merry-go-round whirled. Pulling me along with her, she seemed to dance around the playground. What time did I tell my friends I would be home? We have such fun plans. I can spend time with her later.
Beautiful and elegant, she sat at the head of the table. A real queen. Smooth skin glowing with health and vitality. Eyes sparkling with joy. It is hard to believe that it is her eighty-fifth birthday. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren gathered in her honor. Smiling approvingly at me, she took her place in the dancing circle of family members. How long before I can leave? I’m invited to a party. A lot of fun people will be there. I can talk to her later.
The moment I saw her, the blood drained from my face. Time suddenly stopped. Wanting the whole thing to go away, I closed my eyes. But I could not erase the memory of the lifeless eyes staring out of the wrinkled, gaunt face in the hospital bed. Or the useless legs bent at an odd angle. I could not ignore the nauseating smell of disinfectant and decaying bodies. Or my mother’s pleading voice, repeating over and over, “You know me, Savta (Grandmother)? You know me . . .”
It was too late.
She had disappeared inside herself, to a place I could no longer reach.
Did she know how much I loved her? Did she know what she meant to me? Did I ever tell her?
the daffodils of spring There is a spring beneath us all, and it is, in the Zohar, and we are all nourished by this same spring which comes from The Source.
This is a story about love, about tears, about loss and life's bittersweet regrets. Do we tell each other we love each other, before it's too late. Are we capable of realizing the old woman, is loving, is wise, gave birth to this family, and that she represents as a baby, l'd'or va d'or, from door to door, from generation to generation, that spring that bears us all?
I try to treat all good-byes, thinking it could be, for the last time, and this makes the time amongst others, especially those beloved by me, all the more precious.
This is a beautiful story of doors closing and of doors opening, and the opening of consciousness and conscience on what is really most important. We need to celebrate each other. Always!