Dancing for Daddy

He gives me the longest brachah I have ever received. It will also be the last

Photo: Shutterstock

The melody grows stronger louder. Men march into the room in time with the lively beat. My mother’s closest friends lean in toward me. “Don’t cry” they whisper. “Be strong for your mother.”

I stand on the platform beside my mother, and a great ache fills me. Even as the words of encouragement echo in my ears, the tears well up. I squeeze them back. I plaster a smile on my face, clenching my fists against the soft satin of my gown. Has a tear escaped, falling down my face?

My thoughts churn: Daddy, do you see? Are you with us, now, as your daughter heads to the chuppah?

When my sister got engaged, I wanted to display a picture of Daddy in the dining room, at the l’chaim. I wanted him to be there; I wanted to feel his presence. And I wanted everyone else to notice the photograph, and remember him. My mother had discouraged me, “It will make people uncomfortable.”