Hindsight

Someone once told me: “If you’re not sure what to do about something imagine it’s ten years in the future and what you’re experiencing now is in the past. What would you like to say you did? How would you like to say you reacted?”

I found it to be good advice. But unfortunately I got that advice too late for a particular era in my life which fills me with shame when I think of it.

But to tell you that story I’m going to have to go even further back in time. Until I was four years old life was fairly typical. I was a happy little kid with one older brother Rafi and a younger sister Chava. One day the unthinkable happened: My mother was in a terrible car accident. She was physically unharmed but Rafi was killed. He was only five years old. Everyone was in shock.

I don’t remember much from that time and today I only have vague memories of Rafi — and really I suspect that most of those memories are really me remembering what others told me about him. I’m told that I reacted more from seeing my parents and grandparents cry during the shivah than from being told that Rafi was gone. I suppose it makes sense. What does a four-year-old understand about death? Nothing. But they do understand tears. And when your strong sturdy parents who can fix everything are crying it’s frightening. I’m told I had nightmares and started wetting my bed.