Dreams in the Attic

Where did those days go those years? Like a passing dream; like a withered flower. Who even were we in those years?

A year ago I was at my nephew’s bar mitzvah. Bar mitzvahs are the hardest because you can’t stop thinking But we did this we also got all those brachos he was so happy to lein as well and all those other unhelpful things we think. My nephew is named for my father and my grandmother a Holocaust survivor of strong faith and stronger spirit got teary-eyed as she sat down next to me for the leining of my adorable nephew.

I was teary-eyed too for a number of reasons. One my father’s presence is always felt strongly at family simchahs and two my own dear son whose bar mitzvah I couldn’t help but recall was not present — by his choice. As my grandmother sat down heavily next to me I saw her pain.

I squeezed her hand and said nothing. My siddur shifted in my lap. A breeze blew through the window. Someone sniffed; leining continued unabated. I tried to cry as silently as possible — I’m good at it. My grandmother turned to me and whispered: “We don’t get to choose.”

She was so tormented by my father’s absence at this simchah. I was so tormented by my son’s absence. Two mothers feeling sadness over their sons. Two women who have chosen to accept the nisyonos Hashem has given them. Two women sitting at the leining trying to cry as quietly as possible. Two women trying their best to feel simchah at a simchah. Two women internalizing that we don’t get to choose which struggles Hashem puts in our path.