I didn’t need to worry about what she would say or do, because she wasn’t here to say or do it
I didn’t need to worry about what my mother would say or do, because she wasn’t here to say or do it
I feel like I’m too young to light a yahrtzeit candle.
My mother died when I was 25 years old. Her yahrtzeit is Rosh Chodesh Iyar. At the time, we were living in America, where Pesach is eight days long. Since I am notoriously bad with Hebrew dates, I relied on the fact that she passed away a week after Motzaei Pesach.
My method for remembering was foolproof. Easy to remember, Pesach is always eight days (right?). Pesach that year ended on a Thursday evening. I remembered the hectic Friday preparations. Scrambling to get challah made (shlissel challah, what a zechus!). Pulling leftovers out of the fridge. Commenting on the incongruity of eating Pesach food with challah. And, of course, finding that last Pesach Tupperware container in the back corner of the fridge, only after everything else had been cleaned and put away.
I remember the next Friday. Sitting by her bed while she received dialysis. Glancing at my watch, calculating how much time I had until Shabbos. Should I go home? Or stay with her? The decision was made for me as her breaths increasingly rattled in her chest and she left This World.
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