Yesterday, Saturday, was the last day of Passover (for Reform Jews). There was a Shabbat morning service combined with a special service for Passover, and Yizkor (remembering). It was the first time I heard Linda's name read at my synagogue. It was important that I be there, and it was also not so easy. Bringing tissues and a friend really helped. Got more hugs (always welcome), especially from two dear congregants, one of whom had lost her husband six years ago, and the other just a few months ago. "Time does not heal," said the first. I remember what someone else said: "It doesn't get better; it just gets different."
It is now two weeks since Linda left this earthly plane. Much of the time, things are OK, I'm OK. And then I realize that, in large part, the blur continues. The surreality of this entire situation (for want of a better term) has not left. So much the same, so much fundamentally different. I know I'm repeating myself. Linda's big black purse sits on a chair by the dining room table. One of her overshirts is on the back of the chair, with a purple PANCAN pin on the collar. I'm not ready to move them yet. There is a comfort in that sameness, having things in the places where they ought to be. Keys in one pocket of the purse, cell phone in another.
To every thing, there is a season. This is the season for planting for summer harvest. Today at the farmers market and OSH, I got most of the tomato plants I wanted. The fritillary butterflies are enjoying the flowers on the fence between our house and Carl and Hannah's. Linda is the one who researched and found out what they were. The stargazer lilies in the bouquet that Hannah brought have opened to an incredible 9" span, and their scent fills the kitchen.
Today also included attending an Eagle Scout ceremony (impressive) and dinner with Jeff and Razmik, Charlie and Christine, Jeremy and Daniel (delicious).
Next weekend, I will go down to Santa Monica for a long overdue visit with my father. That's another area where Elinor took on more than her share over the last few months, for which I am very grateful. I think I will get to take him to a breakfast meeting of Ameinu, formerly known as the Labor Zionist Alliance. It's nice for him to get out and socialize with old friends, and I will be happy to be part of it.
I'm finally getting around to reading some of the materials left for me by the Hospice workers and Rabbi Alexander. Some of them are no longer relevant. One section in a small pamphlet titled "Taking the Time You Need to Mourn Your Loss" stood out: Trust that there will be valuable lessons in grief. It is hard to imagine that something as unbearable as grief can be valuable. But the lessons involved in coming to terms with loss provide essential instruction in making sense of being human.
In Linda's woven checkbook wallet, in the proper pocket inside the purse, is a card that is visible from behind a plastic window. Two small bears sit in a crescent moon in the lower left corner. There is a leafy border. So many times I had seen the card, noticed the border, and it wasn't until yesterday that I really read the words:
"In the daytime we can't see the stars, yet they exist. In the nighttime we can't see the sun, yet it exists. When we're apart, you can't see my love, yet it is there always."
