The First Two Years: A Yizkor Kavannah

I. The First Day

What?

Wait...what?

No.

How?  When?

Why?

No.

What?

No.

No no no.

II.  Shiva

Thank you for coming

Thank you for coming

Mmm, bagesl and lox, thank you so much.

You know you meant a lot to us.

Thank you for coming

Thank you for coming

Mmm, casserole, thank you so much.

You know you meant a lot to us.

Thank you for coming

Thank you for coming

Mmm, white fish salad, thank you so much.

It means a lot.

Yitgadal v'Yitkadash.

Thank you everyone, please go away now.

Go away.

Go away.

Thank you,

Amen.

III.  Sheloshim

Everyone went away.

Especially you.

One month later

And I don't know how to be.

Stop it.

IV.  Eleven Months Later

Today I brought a bottle of Scotch to shul

And many little plastic cups.

And just before the Mourner's Kaddish

I stood up and announced the unveiling.

Eleven months since you died.

I told a funny story

And poured out a drink for anyone who wanted one.

It was nice,

We toasted your life.

But you're still dead anyway.

You're still dead.

And I think I"m a little drunk.

V.  Two Years Later

It's Yizkor on Yom Kippur

And while the rabbi reads off the names

I'm going to tell you an embarrassing secret.

Sometimes when I'm watching TV

And an older couple comes on

In one of those commercials for Social Security supplemental health insurance.

And even though the dialogue is hokey

And the situation is contrived,

They are so warm and familiar with each other,

And you know they have been together for a long time

And plan to be together for a long time to come

And I can't help it,

It reminds me of you.

I know, right?

But I can't help it,

It makes me cry.

Only a little.

After all,

It's silly,

It's only a commercial for Social Security supplemental health insurance.

Oh, the rabbi just got to you.

It's good to hear her say your name again.

We remember you, together.  

Amen.

A Yizkor Kavannah For The Ambivalent

Bless Yah, Ruach Ha Olam,
Breathing us in and breathing us out.

Each loss breaks a pattern.

We pray and remember.

God of our immigrant grandparents,
God of our wandering children,
God of the community, 
God who is each person's, alone,

God who knew our parents, 
God who knows our deaths.

We pray and remember.

Daddy God of our childhood faith,
Nonexistent God of our young skepticism,                             

Complicated God-ness of our adult searching,

Unknowable God of the mystics,
Rational God of the philosophers,
Soothing God of our old age,
Listening God of our last words,

We pray and remember.

Bless Yah, Ruach Ha Olam,
Breathing us in and breathing us out.

Imagining us,

Comforting us,
Singing us,

We pray and remember.

We remember them:

Our Teachers and Leaders,

Our Artists and Entertainers,

Our Enemies and Rivals,

Our Friends and Companions,

Our Aunts and Uncles and Cousins,

Our Husbands and Wives and Partners,

Our Children and Siblings,
Our Parents and Grandparents.

Each loss breaks a pattern,
Whether good or bad.
How can we ever forgive them for leaving us?

We remember them

Because they gave us to ourselves,

Whether we liked it or not.

We remember them

Because we loved each other,

Except when we didn’t.

And we remember

Because, well,
That is our job.

Every loss breaks a pattern,
Whether good or bad.

How can we ever forgive them for knowing us so well?

We pray

And we give thanks for the ancient traditions, 

Telling the story even when we can’t. 

We pray and place ourselves in front of the fear,

We place ourselves in front of the anger,

We place ourselves in front of the grief,

We pray and we hope for delight in the memories

And music when there cannot be joy

And repair when the patterns break.

Bless Yah, breathing in,

Praying with us because we are alone.

Bless Yah, breathing out,

Remembering us when we cannot.

Amen