This is a piece I wrote in the spring of 2017 approximately a year after both my husband’s father and my father died within three weeks of each other. As we approach Passover and Easter, in the midst of this global pandemic, we now encounter a period of grieving for our previous lives with all their freedoms.
I want to tell you about my father. Specifically, the snapshot of us on a Fort Lauderdale Beach, me, at two or three years old, aloft on his shoulders, both of us squinting in the sun. He is holding my tiny, doughy feet in his hands. My palms are curved around the sides of his head. We look loose and easy, as if we’re sharing the same inside joke. This is a bookend.
On Betty’s journey, I have learned something I had not known; I am very strong, strong enough to stay, strong enough to go when the time comes. I am staying not to cling on, but because sometime, at least once, everyone should see someone all […]
For a child, the loss of a parent is the loss of memory itself. Svetlana Alexievich