Everyone came to my father's shiva, everyone -- except
my Dad. He was dead, of course, buried in the fresh spring
earth, but his soul, which Chazal say still hovers over a
man's earthly home for the week following his death, wasn't
there. No one invited it in.
Everyone turned out -- neighbors, business associates,
cousins and rabbis. There was a lot of talking, much of it
about things long gone. I heard about Eastern Europe before
the war and I learned a lot about New York City co-op
management and real estate taxes and how tough everything is
these days. And of course, I heard lots about doctors and
hospitals, including the hospital where my Dad spent his
final days.
I didn't hear about my Dad -- his life, his accomplishments,
his interests, his passions. Like the seven-day memorial
candle that burned over the piano in the corner of the living
room where we sat, his light was slowly flickering out.
Nobody cared enough to try to capture some of that light
before it was finally extinguished.
From what I understand, the mourning period exists to allow
the community to support the mourner both physically and
emotionally. That means sending in platters of cooked food,
which we receeived to excess. It also means being open enough
to hear the bereaved's feelings of sadness, not trying to
snuff out the wound with small talk.
A shiva visitor can help a mourner take stock of his
loss by summoning up memories of the departed. To do this, he
needn't have been privy to the deceased's inner life. Epic
tales are nice if you've got them but small memories, even
tiny crumbs of memory, can be very nourishing. At our
shiva, we were starved even for these.
All through that week, I would have liked so much to hear
someone share some small vignette. It would even have been
nice to hear someone say, "Your Dad was a nice man. I'll miss
him."
Almost no one said those things.
My Dad was a family man. After surviving the Holocaust, he
could hardly believe that Hashem had granted him a new
family. He could hardly contain his joy. He snapped thousands
of photographs of his small brood and he kept dozens of
accordion tie folders filled with pictures my brother and I
drew in kindergarten, grade school compositions, poems and
old report cards. To my Dad, Auschwitz happened yesterday and
he'd grow teary when he recalled his mother, sisters, brother
and nieces and nephews, all burned in the crematoria.
America never felt completely right to my Dad. Its crassness
and vulgarity were too much for his sensitive spirit. He
couldn't speak his heart in English so he remained silent.
People thought he was quiet and he was overlooked.
"I thought you wanted to get your mind off the loss," said
one cousin who traveled quite far to come offer
condolences.
Sorry, you goofed.
I felt that my Dad was invisible, not only in his death but
in his life. Here and there, someone turned up who had taken
note of my Dad during the days when his body walked the
earth.
The sales clerk at the cheese store my father had patronized,
an ex-hippie with a pony tail who joined the minyan
every morning, noticed. "I used to see your father in
Riverside Park and watched him looking at the squirrels and
pigeons. He was a beautiful man. We never had any deep
conversations but he noticed the details."
It was so gratifying to hear that my father had been noticed,
that he existed for someone besides the official mourners.
I was so glad to hear that my father was remembered as
someone who noticed the details. Perhaps this is the lesson I
was meant to learn from this shiva and my Dad's life --
to be awake, to notice the details.
I hope I can have the eyes to see them.
