My Beloved Mordechai:
On Motzei Shabbat our family will gather together to commemorate your second yahrzeit. The time makes no sense to me, as that day two years ago began as usual with you greeting me, “Good morning My Dvorah, you look so beautiful.” It was the same greeting I received each morning, even when I tried to convince you that I really did not look that great. We talked, we had lunch with friends, and for whatever reason you went to rest, and then Hashem decided that it was your time to go. No, I will never understand any of it.
They say that time flies (when you are having fun), but in my case the days go by but the pain is as intense as when it began the day you left me.
I wake in the morning and reach over to your side of our bed and I rub the quilt. The same happens when I go to sleep. I detest the silence, the emptiness, the frustration of having to make decisions alone, the craziness if I see something flying over our bed and need you to get rid of it. It was your job to protect me from the crazy little things that disturb women and perhaps not men. I try to remind myself when I climb up to change a light bulb that you are not here to catch me if I fall. I look outside at the bird feeder that you spent hours enjoying and want you to know that Akiva fills it in your honor each time he is here.
I rarely go to shul anymore (imagine, me, your rebbetzin) because it is hard for me to look down at the men’s section and not see you davening with the kavana that you had. There was no question in my mind that many of our tefillahs were answered because of the manner in which you addressed Hashem. How many times did people come to us and ask you specifically to daven for a sick child, a painful situation etc?
I so much appreciate the adoration you had for nature. I still notice “our chuppah street” on Churchill as you would notice the leaves on the large trees binding together from one side to the other. I stop to look at the clouds and notice the sky as it is changing colors. I can’t say that I am happy when it rains, but I remember the number of times you told me that rain didn’t matter as long as we were together, even if we were on vacation. Please forgive me because I do need that reassurance and you are no longer here for that.
I still bake challah with whole wheat flour because that was your preference, although I am sometimes tempted to try regular bread flour alone. I no longer buy some of your favorites—chopped herring salad, those awful Pesach candies with the jelly, and pistachio ice cream are seldom in my freezer.
Our children have been caring and attentive, showing much concern and love for me. They also suffer your loss greatly. We have had two grandchildren’s weddings and added several great grandchildren in the past two years. I am a zombie at each “badeken” ceremony when the fathers and grandfathers approach the kallah to give her a bracha.
All of the things we loved to do together are now memories. Our house is no longer a hub as it was for many years, with kids running in and out and tons of company on Shabbat. I derive no pleasure from cooking for myself. Our children immediately solved who would sit in your seat at the table, as I was lost the first time they came for a Shabbat meal. I am now the occupant of that seat. I make Havdala alone each week, trying so hard to remember the special tune that you used. I need to use the same intonation, and of course no one makes Zaidie’s famous Havdala with schnapps on fire at the end as we all sang “shavua tov” any longer. Gone. That is how I look at those years of togetherness. So many years and so many things no longer practiced. It drives me crazy.
On this, your second yahrzeit, I would love to be able to hold you again, giggle with you in our own private way about things we would never discuss with anyone else and just know that you are there for me as I always was for you.
My beloved Mordechai, years may go by but I will never let go of the beauty of our relationship, the sparks that we felt for each other from the time we were 17, and the partnership we formed that bound us together. We are one forever.
Your Dvorah
