“ … in The draft of God’s Exhalation …”
It’s almost invariable that melancholia overtakes
me whenever I am there. I don’t think it debilitating, short-
lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the
equation of my grief.
Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be
because it is a "makom kodesh," a holy place, wherein at times I feel
the presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation.
I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As
strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my
feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere.
Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s guess; it’s in the Olam Haba,
floating-as it were-like a feather caught up in the draft of God’s
exhalation-or somewhere in shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll
bring him closer to God.
But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the “He of Him” implies a ring of closure around our
conception of what God is and where.
You know what? Never mind the theological gymnastics. I’m satisfied
with that explanation however much it might make me an apikoros[1],
just as long as Ben “returns” on a regular basis. I’ve few if any other
choices.
And return he does, a sort of tshuva[2] in reverse in that he
returns to us from God-whereas we seek, in doing tshuva, to
near Him, to approach Him. We may even cross each other’s
paths on occasion. A heavenly intersection, a cosmic
crossroads-if you will-where the souls and prayers of those
who love(d) him may barely escape collision.
I believe Ben’s soul hovers in synagogue when I am there. He spends
time with me in that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the
time when I sit in our row by myself.
I felt it (him) recently on Purim-a feeling unlike that of any other
experience, anywhere else, including the time I spend writing
in Ben’s room. Though I fully expect this grief, I am thankful
to take my seat in the row behind my dear friend, Rabbi Louis
and his two sons. It affords me the opportunity to look over
the mechitza[3] to the yahrzeit[4] panels on the south wall and
see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column on the
first panel.
We have a tradition in shul life that one’s seat
becomes his makom kavua.[5] Ben's seat is next to mine though I
should tell you he was not a regular shul-goer. Nobody else
sits there however, except my father on Erev Yontif Rosh
Hashanah.
Whether it happens to be the thanksgiving of Purim, the
revelry of Simchas Torah[6] or the trepidation of Yom Kippur,[7]
my son remains by my side. Other fathers have their sons
sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they
do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-
kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That
Purim morning I lamented how much time has passed without
Ben. I am reminded daily his absence is forever. No matter
how many years have gone by or however many are yet to
come, Ben’s death for me will always remain in the present
tense.
I will never say: “Once upon a time I had a son named
Ben.” I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I
am a better person for having known and loved him. He taught
me so much.
Still ... know there are moments when I am filled with guilt it was he and
not I.
[1] One who challenges tenets of religious belief.
[2] Repentance; atonement
[3] Partition in an orthodox synagogue separating women’s from men’s section.
[4] The anniversary of a death
[5] set place where one sits
[6] holiday celebrating the “joy of Torah”.
[7] Day of Atonement
