Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well.
- Henry Scott Holland
Grief is such a strange thing. As I continue to learn, it is different for every one and it is different at different times. Today, I find it to be weepy. Uneven and uncertain. Personal and universal.
Tomorrow would be my dad’s 82nd birthday. He died very suddenly in May. We were very close and while we left nothing unsaid, not being able to talk to him…hurts. Very much.
I know there are other friends and total strangers that know this feeling too. Across this country, across the world. I know I am not alone.
In Judaism, when people die, especially parents, it’s common to say, “May their memory be a blessing.” What does that mean? At the time of his death, I asked this question and I’m still asking it.
When I was a kid, if you came to dinner at my house you probably noticed the set of encyclopedias that were next to our kitchen table. If we had a question during dinner, my dad would yell, “Look it up!” No wonder I became a librarian.
When I “looked it up” on Google, a number of explanations came up. This one resonated with me: “When we express this sentiment, the blessing implied is that it is up to those who bear the memory of the person who passed away, to keep their goodness alive. By remembering them, their good works and good deeds, speaking their name and carrying on their legacy, they live on in our hearts and minds.”
What a deeply personal call to action.
As I think about this and apply it to my dad and to myself, I start to wonder:
In what ways does my dad live on in my heart and in my mind?
In what ways am I keeping his goodness alive?
What is a legacy? What was my dad’s legacy? In what ways am I carrying on his legacy?
Am I doing enough?
In a moment of real hurt, that familiar question - am I doing enough - pokes its head.
Am I doing enough?
I’ve taken at least ten breaths since I typed that question.
Ten breaths to settle down. Ten breaths to move from the hurt in my chest down to the empty hole in my belly down to my seat.
On breath 11, am I doing enough?
Yes. I am.
My dad was an endlessly curious person. My memories are filled with him asking questions or asking me to ask them. What did I think? Why did I think it? How do I know what I know? What else is there to know? Who said so? Why should we listen to them? He loved big, rich, open questions.
So do I.
My dad loved to learn. He read voraciously. He learned from books, magazines, and newspapers. In his late 70s, he learned from YouTube. He loved to learn from people: asking them about themselves, hearing their stories, learning about their experiences, and connecting with them.
So do I.
My dad found joy in simple things. My closest friends (bless them for how they’ve held me through grief) asked what I am doing for my dad’s birthday. “We’ve having soup for dinner,” I said. Soup and challah on Shabbat - my dad’s favorite. He would have thought it was a meal for a king. He found joy in a good meal if he could sit with people he loved, talking.
So do I.
My dad took note. He always had 3x5 cards in his shirt pockets so that he could take note of something he saw, heard, thought, or wondered. My family jokes all the time that he would jot down all sorts of random things. Yet, he took note of things that mattered to him. He knew what mattered to him.
My dad loved untangling complicated questions with others. He was a teacher, after all. He scaffolded learning and encouraged exploration by taking big questions apart and parsing them into more bite-size questions. My daughter reminds me of him when we talk of multifaceted things. “Zaydie would say….” or “Zaydie would love this question….” spills from my lips and sometimes hers. He would have loved watching the wheels in her brain turn with those questions and conversations.
So do I.
I see him.
My dad taught me to listen, learn, and ask questions. He taught me not to take small things and simple things for granted. He taught me to make time for what and who I love. He taught me to believe in myself.
My dad modeled believing in myself by believing in me. He was my biggest fan. Whenever I questioned myself or my capability, he’d assure me that I could do it. He’d remind me of all that I had done before. He’d remind me of all that I am, probably with emphasis on being a Smithie. He’d close the conversation, every time, saying, “Remember, you are The SHECK” - our nickname for my super hero identity.
Anne Lamott says that maturity is the ability to live with the unresolved. My dad cannot tell me that I am The SHECK anymore. Instead, I draw on what he taught me. He taught me to ask my own questions and to support others in uncovering their own. He taught me to listen and learn and take note. He taught me to be my own biggest fan.
May his memory be a blessing.
Simply beautiful. Sending lots of hugs to you. 💕
I love this!! Andrew Garfield lost his mom, and when an interviewer asked about her, he teared up, and the interviewer apologized. Garfield replied (I’m paraphrasing.) “No, don’t apologize. I love talking about her. Grief is just unexpressed love, and I have a lot of it. She was the best of us.” Your dad’s memory is a blessing, and his legacy lives on so vibrantly through you. It’s a blessing to be your friend. 💜💜💜💜