When my sisters and I begin with the stories, we’re performers on the stage of shivah stools. The audience’s faces alternate between awe and sorrow,
SPECIAL EFFORT I can’t hurt her feelings. She made a special effort to come; there’s no way I’m going to tell her to leave. I feel that way with everybody. They take time out of their busy schedules to be menachem avel. I refuse to intimate in any way that I am tired or that I have just repeated the same story 25 times
N oiselessly they enter and remove their coats. Tucking them over their arms they sit on folding chairs placed around the room around the mourners. From my low perch on my stool their faces loom above me.
“How old was he?” a neighbor ventures.
“Ninety,” I answer.
Faces relax.
Oh, he was old. It’s not that sad, their faces are saying.
Others, like my old school friend, Sasha, takes my hand in hers, “I’m sorry,” she says simply.
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