She knew her days were numbered.
I knew her days were numbered.
Yet, on the 12th of January I find it difficult to accept the fact that she is no more.
We shared lots of memories; some good, some not so good. The former we recalled fondly; the later we acknowledged and moved on.
I've known her since 1970, but from 1974 until about 2008 we were "out of touch." Parting was hardly "sweet sorrow" back in '74.
Still, during the relatively brief time we were initially close we created a book full of shared experiences, experiences we had been reliving - avoiding none - since '08.
When I try to analyze my feelings it seems it is "all about me."
I won't be able to continue my correspondence with her.
I won't hear any more about her life in the snow belt.
I won't be able to share any more photos of my kids and grandkids with her.
I won't be upset when my emails go unanswered - or she responds with one line to my 50.
As I write my frustrations, kadish comes to mind.
Kadish is not a "prayer for the dead." It actually has nothing to do with death. It affirms our faith when it is most challenged. Kadish, then, is for the living; the people who have to go on without a loved one, a special person.
I can't - perhaps "shouldn't " is the better word - recite kadish for my friend; we are not related and she's not Jewish. In a sense, that makes the loss even harder to take.
While it most assuredly is not like a parent burying an infant, the loss of a 70-year-old non-Jewish friend leaves me with the same feeling of "non-closure." There needs to be something within Judaism for those close to people for whom kadish is "discouraged."
Life goes on, albeit slightly diminished.
I've lost other friends, all of whom were of retirement age or more. Each loss hurt, but life went on. It will go on even now.
But diminished.
