...And the conversation somehow drifted to 'Al Tishali Oti'. Declared one blogger, "If I was the sabra, I wouldn't post so cryptically'. "If I was the sabra", said another, "I wouldn't use so many Hebrew & Yiddish words." Another blogger chimed in, "If I owned 'Al Tishali Oti', I would be more consistent with colors n content." "I wouldn't be sarcastic to commenters", muttered another, darkly. One blogger added not. "I have nothing to say, for 'To know the sabra is to be the sabra'."
she interrupted me as soon as she heard that line in the goodnight song I was singing to her. "Why did you say 'Gutte nacht mein kinde' ['Goodnight, my child'] if I'm not your kinde? You're not my Mommy."
We are feeding the kids lunch, we are making phone calls and we are making jokes (albeit black ones), we are carrying suitcases and we are even going to the park.
Frozen people can move.
Matty was jumping on the mattress before, while I was looking for her pajamas. "STOP JUMPING!!!", I shouted like a madwoman. She wasn't frozen. HOW DARE SHE MOVE ABOUT SO CAREFREE?!
How dare the other Cohens not.
"How old was Tante Esty?" asks the 5 year old.
"That's not an old lady." she observes.
"No, it's not. It's young. Very young. Tante Esty was just a young lady when she went to Hashem."
Mushky muses that Hashem must be very busy and needed help so that's why He got Tante Esty.
And, sickeningly reminiscent of the world's Moishele, little Yechiel keeps asking for Mammy.
Frantic rush to finish filling out the Tzivos Hashem forms for school tomorrow.
Who's filling out THEIR forms, we wanna know.
"Most Mammies don't go to Hashem", the niece tells us. We agree. We literally see the question burning in her mind.
All the tehillim slots we missed. The hachlatas we didn't keep.
Who's going to make sure the 6 year old is not in her room crying for hours??
They'll bring meals, food and drinks to please every palette. But the souls will still cry out in hunger. All the care, concern and cleaning help in the world won't match up to one hour with their mother.
"Stop testing us, Hashem! We're going to start cheating!" cries out her mother.
Waiting for a levayah.
Are we in a novel? Are we really dealing with all this dodgy hospital stuff?
She's coming back in a few weeks, right? 4, 6 max. Alright, 2 months. And then we're back to normal.
"I want them to make their own lunches in the morning", he told me last week. "In case it's shayich."
That was the most horrible thing I could remember hearing in my life.
And we're sitting here having to decide between celebrating with one son by his wedding and one son by his wife's funeral. A funeral. A funeral. A body and a coffin. Hundreds of black hats.
Frozen people. We're moving.
We're wandering, lost. Unbalanced. Suspended in time. The world is moving but we stand in one place, staring off in the distance, until the tears come crashing down, blocking our vision. Do we really want to see anyhow? Better to just keep on moving. Moving. Moving.