Breaking Free

I’m in a tin tube hurtling through the sky at 500 miles an hour as we speed away from Eretz Yisrael, heading to New York.

Thirty-six thousand feet above land, peeking through the clouds, I see a sprawling topography below me. Ocean. Mountain ranges. Swatches of green earth dotted brown and black, with city lights and highways and millions of people filling doll-sized houses and cars, going to work and school and stores. And your levayah.

I can’t believe I’m missing your funeral. I can’t believe you’re having a funeral. I can’t believe I didn’t get to say goodbye. And now I never will.

The Friday before your petirah, I was a wreck, a lump in my throat threatening to choke me, fighting back tears all day long. I didn’t know why — was it your hospitalization or was I using that as a convenient excuse to cloak my homesickness and nerves? I’d like to say it was a premonition, but let’s be honest; I always fear the worst.