I Remember

In loving memory of my Step-Mother Bayla Bas R. Moshe OH.

I guess this letter comes better late than never though I suspect I would be a much happier person had the necessity of writing it never arisen. It’s been a steep and winding road my heart has traveled, and I am still barely capable of expressing in words the emotions I haven’t been able to feel for so long. Healing does comes with time, and the time seems to have arrived. By which means and specific method I remain clueless, but thankful nonetheless.

You didn’t technically bring me into this world, but you did provide for and enhance my existence for the brief time you shared this life with me, and I am eternally grateful for that. You left this world long before I could ever understand gratitude or realize what exactly it was that I was to be thankful for. I have missed the opportunity to tell you how grateful I am.

There was so much mystery around you (and father) that I never felt as if I really knew either of you well. Maybe it was the recalcitrant child, maybe it was the distant father, maybe it was nothing, and maybe it doesn’t matter at all. Perhaps this is the reason I didn’t openly mourn then, and still haven’t grieved, from your passing. Mystery is a fog that obscures everything but fear. Childhood to me is mostly a blur. There are some things, however, that I do remember.

I remember being introduced to my “new” mother and recoiling a bit out of childish shyness. I remember overcoming that shyness rather quickly. I remember you helping me read and write in Yiddish and in English, and how proud you were of my early literary accomplishments and poetic fantasies, sloppily scribbled in crayon or chalk on a freshly re-painted kitchen wall or on the edges of a coloring book. I always wanted to be a writer, and had Providence allowed your love and nurturing to continue, perhaps that dream would have been realized. I know you also wanted what would make Father proud, too, so poetry had to be put aside for the Chumash and Mishnayos. He was much luckier in love than I think he ever realized.

I remember you bentching Shabbos Licht and the smell of fresh chalah. I remember you fussing around in that tiny kitchen we had on St. Marys. I remember running home from Shul ahead of Father so that I could have you to myself for a few minutes, to hear a story from your life or a story you would concoct spur of the moment. I remember it feeling really good to have a mother and father like everyone else, short lived as that situation turned out to be. I remember you being the only person who would stop whatever it was they were doing and listen to what I had to say. I remember saying Krias Shema al haMitah and asking HaShem to let you live forever.

I remember the Yiddishe lullabies we would sing at bedtime, and the way your dark eyes would dance when you smiled or laughed. I remember how conversation with Father would trail off into Russish or Poylish when I wasn’t supposed to hear something perceived too sensitive for tender ears. I remember for the first time feeling loved as a child. I have spent much of my life seeking that comfort and safety that you offered me then, and my greatest fear is that I will never find it again. Yours was the only soft voice I ever heard.

I remember other things, too. I remember being told that you were very sick, and that you’d be away in the hospital for days at a time. I remember getting shoved off into next room every time a conversation related to your illness ensued. I remember the resignation and silence between you and Father, which I sensed placed a greater strain on an already difficult circumstance, and the thickness of the air in the place. I remember you sleeping in a separate room from Father and not knowing why. I remember listening to your voices at night in conversation while lying awake in bed, and not being able to make out the words. I remember my safety being threatened by something invisible and mysterious.

I remember the smell of hospital rooms and long well-polished corridors with their immense dungeon-like doors, bearing untold secrets within. I remember the vinyl furniture in the lobby, the gift shop, and vending machines filled with all sorts of shiny treife zachin, that Father forbade me from even looking at, let alone eat. I remember being fascinated by the architecture and massiveness of the huge cathedral across the street from the hospital. I remember Father getting angry whenever someone would take ‘his’ special parking spot, as if it had remained one of the great un-yet discovered secrets of the known universe until Father and his rusty station wagon happened upon it. I remember my indignation and frustration at being told when, where, and how I was going to visit my own mother, and that being under a certain age, my mentality would be too frail to comprehend the severe matters at hand.

I remember talking to you for a few minutes a day on the phone, dutifully telling you that I loved you and missed you, when in fact I was not yet sure what those things meant. I remember reading you my first feeble attempts at poetry, or showing you my latest artwork, and you crying. I also remember not knowing how to react to your pain. There was a numbness that began to overtake me from that point forward. Eventually, I stopped feeling altogether. Please understand. I didn’t know how to be any different.

I remember the ambulance coming to the house, and Bubbe Chana helping you into the ambulance. I remember the driver in his blue uniform and hat, rushing around opening and closing steel boxes and doors. I remember the flashing lights, the neighbors gathering around to witness the tumult, and then being shuttled back into house, and the door closing behind me. I remember voices, but no words. Images yes, but no clear pictures. That frenzied night is the last memory I have of you. I never had the chance to speak to you, hug you, or see you again. From that time on, there would be no audience for my words, no gentle critique of my art, and no guiding hand for my emotions.

You managed to live another few weeks, slipping in and out of a coma. There were no more phone calls, no more poems, and nothing related to your condition was spoken of within earshot. I was never invited to visit the hospital, and now understand why. Father shipped me off to summer camp, hoping to distract me, and perhaps allow himself some space. I went back to being the thoughtful, somewhat introverted, and lonely child I had always been and, for the most part, remain, even today.

I remember Father informing me of your passing. I had been staying at a chaver’s home overnight. Immediately upon entering through the back gate, Father asked me why I hadn’t called to ask about how you were doing. I was surprised and shocked more by his inquiry than the news of your death! He had not once discussed his pain, his anger, his hurt, or anything related to your illness with me and all of the sudden he expected me to become obsessively inquisitive. It’s not that I blame him, since neither of us possessed the ability to adequately articulate our feelings. Anger is always an easy emotion to pull out when you don’t have any idea what to do with feelings, and you decide that you have to feel something no matter what.

I remember the Levaya. I remember lots of people that I didn’t even know offering their tanchumim. I remember the long, slow walk behind the Aron, the heap of dirt at the Bais haChaim, and Father saying Kaddish. I remember it being more like a movie, like something that was happening to someone else, but not me. I felt nothing, or didn’t know what to feel. Forgive me. Childhood can seem surreal when it’s so painful or numbing that you don’t want to be there anymore. That numbness clouds the memory, too. I don’t remember Father ever speaking to me of you after the Levaya.

There are things you don’t get to find out about someone when they are taken from you too soon. They are the little details in life that make it sweeter, and physically bind you to those you love. I have no idea what your favorite color was, your favorite flower, or what ever in the world it was that possessed you to marry my Father. I have always wondered what it would be like to talk with you now, maybe listen to Chopin or Schubert together. I used to listen to those records when I was home alone after you were gone.

I would have liked for you to have known your Ayniklach. They are as much yours without ever knowing you as they are their biological grandparents that do. I did my best, though it was never enough, and I really could have used your guidance through all these years of soul-searching and turmoil. How much have I yearned for compassionate words!

I haven’t forgotten you and never will. I don't remember everything, but I do remember enough.