Breakthroughs and Farewells

Home again after a long and blessedly drama-free day. Wrung out, but replete, and left with the beginnings of closure.

The day was schizophrenically split into two opposing pieces. The morning was some personal time, where I got up early and left the house to go do some writing, and finally had some good breakthrough. After slogging through some muddy, uncertain-where-I-was-going-and wishing-I-could-get-there-faster beginnings, the trickle finally broke out into a full flow and the words were there when I needed them (thank you, Muse). I actually even had that giddy rollercoaster "whee!" feeling at one point--of course, that could have also been due to the cup of coffee I'd allowed myself at the cafe, but still, it was rewarding.

Then it was time for the second (longer and far less easy) part of the day. I came home around noon and after situating Eli with a sitter (my friend Linda, God bless her, who'd volunteered to bring her son Nicholas over for a playdate), we left for Poppa's memorial service at the synagogue. I was a little frazzled and not quite grounded in the experience at first (which was probably a combination of switching mental gears, coffee afterglow and not having eaten much), but after sitting next to my mom and brother and listening to the rabbi for a few minutes, I was able to focus and be present. It was a good service, short but meaningful. My mom spoke, my aunt spoke, my brother and I spoke. I read what I'd written on my blog (with a few extemporaneous extras thrown in) and though I was nervous and shaky sad at first, I didn't crack until I read the part about dancing with Poppa at my wedding. Then I lost it, kerblooey, right up in front of everyone. I was kind of embarrassed and disappointed with myself for breaking down, but I had a lot of people come up to me afterwards and tell me that they'd been really touched by what I'd said, so I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

I cried a lot. We sang "Eli Eli", which is an incredibly poignant and beautiful song and which I used to sing to Eli as a lullabye when he was wee--I cried and couldn't keep singing. My mom's speaking made me cry, I cried when I spoke, I cried when my brother spoke. The rabbi read a poem (one of my mom's absolute favorites, and mine too) from the Yom Kippur service, about life as a journey from birth to death--I cried. I cried when we said kaddish. The tears didn't make me feel better, but they weren't bad--they were just part of the whole experience.

When it was over, I talked with a lot of people. I actually did talk to my aunt, who was somewhat stiff, but civil and not completely closed, and to my uncle (and his mother), who were warmer. I never got to say anything to my cousin (my aunt's daughter), which was my only regret. Overall, there was much flapping of lips and social courtesies, but also some deeper moments, like the realization that it's always easier to have an uncomplicated love for/worship of one's grandparents than one's parents, and the realization that it takes many different people (dare one say it takes a village?) to properly contextualize and remember a person, and even then it takes ongoing work. But there was also a definite outpouring of love and support from family and extended family and community, and that was good and right.

After the service Josh and I went home to pick up Eli, and then took him back over to my parents' house for the reception (or whatever you call that kind of gathering of people after a memorial service). Luckily he got involved with his cousin and in watching a movie downstairs so we adults could continue to socialize and memorialize, which we did for another 4 or 5 pleasant (in a bittersweet way) hours until everyone finally left and the house was quiet again, just my parents and Josh and Eli and me. We had dinner together, and then we left a little before 8pm. Eli, exhausted from his day of playing with his buddy Nicholas and his beloved cousin Jonah, crashed out as soon as we hit the freeway and didn't even stir when we transferred him to bed (whew). Now I'm ready for bed myself. Maybe in the days to come there can be some more sociological/anthropological observations and reflections on this kind of universal ritual moment. But right now, I have that sort of hollow, squeezed out feeling you get after a really emotional day--time to rest and let the well replenish itself.

I really miss my Poppa.