Looking for oncoming traffic
before turning on to York Street on my way to a yoga class, I saw the lead
hearse in what turned out to be a very long funeral procession. Tears welled,
and I cried. I had no idea who had died, no idea where those tears had come
from—until at lunch, I told the story to Dick, my husband. “Is it anybody’s yhartzeit, (anniversary of a death)?” he
said. “In April?”
I shook my head. “I don’t
think so.”
Then, memory flooded back. I ran upstairs, opened the drawer of my
bedside table, found the small piece of paper where I’d written my
grandparents’ birth dates and the dates of their deaths. Abraham Block, April
25, 1958.
I raced downstairs. “Dick,
what’s the date?”
“April 25th.
“You’re sure?"
He gave me one his looks.
"It’s my
grandfather’s yhartzeit. I can’t
believe it. How can that be?”
"I guess you remembered."
Taking a yhartzeit candle from a cabinet, I struck a
match. No, not I. I didn't remember. Perhaps, my body did. But I wouldn't have known, really known unless I'd told the story.
