I walk towards their tomb
sunny skies,
glorious London
June day,
rolling meadows,
puffy white clouds,
warm breeze,
London's green belt at its best.
The grave needs a cleaning,
I see two stones- someone has been to visit them and left
his or her trace in the stone on the grave,
a symbolic re-internment annually.
In the month of Tamuz I am but a few weeks away from
Nana's yahrzheit-appropriate to pay the annual homage to
the angel who saved me as an infant.
Funny how chicken soup substituted so well for infant
formula
funnier still how she knew what I needed.
I bend down and kneel by the grave's cold marble.
I am overcome with a wave-like grief that sweeps me
along its path.
In reverence for these two beings who were so old to me
when I was young
but now feel so close to me in age.
Dada was my current age when I was born, (not so farfetched
anymore)
as the decades pile up age recedes cleverly.
These were the only grandparents I knew (thank you Herr
Hitler)
and I am suddenly overcome with grief.
Despite the years (1980 for Dada and 1984 for Nana) I
conjure up their faces easily and smell dada's green
sweater and his special odor, a mixture of camphor, castor
oil and cologne.
His big arms welcome me at his doorstep with the usual
spoonful of this or that and a big hug.
His being larger-than-life for me and his sagacity lent an
aura of the patriarch and I honored him as just that.
Nana's hug was more intimate, she was so small and
fragile so I was the one who held her and my memories
are mixed with that year she spent looking after my twins
in Philadelphia.
I felt so connected to her organically and sensed in her a
knowing through the body and sensations, bound up with
her unconditional love for me and my twin.
Her hug,
her warmth,
her love,
I always felt undeserving of it.. The initial grief yields to a
torrent of tears as I come to realize my failed life, and my
having failed them. Nothing much to show for all these
years
despite having left these British shores with their blessing
some 35 years ago.They must have felt full of promise for
me and my career.
What can I say now,
how do I explain
how life meets out its particular brand of suffering to each
how there always seemed to be something tripping me up
destined to sabotage all efforts to the contrary.
But I am and continue to come here
to their resting place
In this one thing I have succeeded.
In loving them,
in my undying connection and unapologetic devotion to
them despite their dreams for me and my letting them
down.
So what remains for me is to say "All I can give you now is
my heart, as large as the world,
here, right now, as I lie on your gravesite" giving them
what is most precious, the very me-ness of I am.
And to say I love them eternally .
Slowly moving away from the overwhelming grief that
comes so rarely
in these numbing years
I find solace in their very presence
their absolute being here and reciprocity of love
a feel in the presence of their love tangibly
in the stillness of the moment
a knowing of the love they have for me in the silent breeze
of this warm afternoon
and I am comforted.
I say the memorial prayer for the sefardi rite and walk
away, comforted.
