Primrose Road

I've had wacky recurring dreams about my father lately:

I find him sitting on one of the chairs in my living room (or, in one case, we're taking a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge) and strongly suggest that he visit a doctor. "Dad," I say, "I'm only telling you this because you're the only person in history ever to recover from death. Doctors might be interested."

Several people have suggested that I see a "grief counselor" at my family's synagogue because I (along with my cousins) have had a bit of trouble feeling that my father's sudden, totally unexpected death happened. We know it happened, but it somehow didn't, and that actually makes a lot of sense to me, and I understand what's going on with that quite well.

This grief counseling, according to the synagogue's pamphlet, involves drawing pictures and writing songs, stories, and poems. I guess that representing one's grief back to oneself works for some people, but I understand too well that it can't speak to the problem of not being able to encounter an event that happened.

My dad was right when he said I intellectualized too much. ;)

The rabbi promised us he'd find an appropriate poem to read at yesterday's funeral service, and he did.

After My Death, by Chaim Nachman Bialik, trans. Ruth Nevo

There was a man – and look, he is no more.
He died before his time.
The music of his life suddenly stopped.
A pity! There was another song in him.
Now it is lost
forever.

A great pity! He had a violin,
a living, speaking soul
to which he uttered
the secrets of his heart,
making all its strings vibrate,
save one he kept inviolate.
Back and forth his supple fingers danced,
one string alone remained entranced
still unheard.

A pity!
All its life that string quivered
silently shook,
yearned for its song, its mate,
as a heart saddens before its fate.
Despite delay it waited daily
mutely beseeching its saviour lover
who lingered, loitered, tarried ever,
and did not come.

Great is the pain!
There was a man – and look, he is no more.
The music of his life suddenly stopped.
There was another song in him.
Now it is lost
forever.

Early yesterday morning, my father died of a massive heart attack. He was healthy and had no pre-existing medical problems.
There is no rhyme or reason or sense to anything in this world.



He taught me how to dance the Lindy, play poker, engage almost anyone from anywhere in the world in conversation, and tell stories. The world is a very different place now.