Thirty Days Without My Father
This week marks shloshim, the first 30 days following the death of my father, Richard Goldstein. “The death of my father” – words I knew that I would eventually have to write; after all, my father was 97 years old. For years every time I left California, I would blink away tears at the airport, wondering if I would see him again. Thank God, he was healthy and vibrant up to two weeks before he left this world. But there is a little girl part of me that even now, four full weeks later, can’t quite believe that he is gone.
And where did he go? The body changed so quickly after his heart and his breathing stopped. The color of his face changed and his skin seemed to shrink down and tighten across his skull. I took a picture but then deleted it, ashamed. I had wanted to hold on just a little longer to that beloved form but the photo felt invasive and false. He clearly wasn’t his body anymore. And even more urgently, what happened to his particular fond love and gratitude, his unique creativity, his endless curiosity? What happened to his inner life that was his alone? Where did all that life force go?
My grieving feels to me like very clear water, tidal yet sweet and fresh. It rises up in me and fills me as if I am a sea cave and then empties back out. I cannot hold it in my hands; it rushes away. The water is not muddied with anger or hurt or guilt, feelings I know well from other losses. I ask myself, what is this feeling? Is it sorrow? Is it longing? Is it love? It does not share its name with me; I cannot yet fathom its message.
I bring my grieving to the daily minyan. How grateful I am for the ancient words! They ground me and support me like cool, steady stones. They can hold my bewilderment; they contain all the mysteries without me having to figure them out even when the questions clamor to be heard. For example, what does the Kaddish mean that the Divine Name should be exalted, blessed and praised above all the blessings, praises, songs and consolations that can be uttered in this world? Imagine for a moment all the words in all the languages that people use to bless and praise, to sing and comfort. The Divine Name is beyond them all. What is the Divine Name? How can possibly it fit in a human mouth? What is God like now that my father is gone? What am I like? I don’t know. And still the words bring comfort.
Thirty days without my father’s physical presence in the world. Thirty days of no answers, of rising and falling, of stumbling forward step by step. And thirty days of love and gratitude, of visits and cards and meals from friends and community, of memories and learning new things I didn’t know about my dad. I can still hear Dad’s voice saying, “Boker tov!” (good morning) and “Super kid.” And I send my “Super Daddilee” out into the mystery and wipe my eyes again.