She didn’t realize how young she was until her son turned seven
I was seven years old when my father passed away. I knew, even at the tender age of seven, that seven is too young to lose a father. And I knew, when I was only seven years old, that my life had changed forever. That’s all I knew about the number seven and me.
Until my son turned seven.
As his seventh birthday was approaching, I began to realize how emotionally laden his turning seven was to me. There are times in my life that are clear — and unsurprising — reminders of my father’s life and his untimely death. Some are obvious: my wedding, his yahrtzeit, the bris of my son who is named after him.
Some might be less obvious to others but not to me, like spending time with people who knew him. But this — my child’s upcoming birthday — took me by surprise. I looked at my soon-to-be-seven-year-old son. He looks so young, I thought. And I realized just how young I was when I’d lost my father. What surprised me even more was that I began to mourn for that little seven-year-old girl.
I mourned, knowing how little she understood of how significantly her life would change. I mourned for all the times her father would be missing from her life and how sad that would be.
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