delray beach

And now we are in Florida. We were greeted last night with a huge thunderstorm, the kind where the sky turns black, then a sickly green, then the rain comes down in sheets. Coming into Bubbie’s house and finding everything just the way it was when she fell and went to the hospital left us both kind of shaken. Her bed was turned down, her laundry heaped on the washing machine, her pill box on the table with Tuesday’s dosage waiting to be taken. Most poignant of all was the old, faded recipe card for matzo meal bagels, which rested on the kitchen table. We know her famous bagels were the last things she cooked. They hadn’t turn out too well, she had told Eddie, and she had decided not to take them to the Seder Monday night. The pot was still in the sink… the bagels in the refrigerator.

This is now a house of mourning. We have covered the mirrors, removed the cushions from the sofa and lit the Shiva candle. I cut Eddie’s shirt just over his heart so that he could tear the fabric. Today people (and food) will begin to arrive.

Bubbie lived on her own in this house for ten years, since the death of Eddie’s dad. In the most recent years, her family rose up around her to care for her, to check in on her, to call frequently, to visit, to take her places, to always be available. She insisted on being as independent as a ninety-three year old woman could possibly be (well, she did have the assistance now and then of her driver, Herbie, who is a sprightly ninety-six) and even though she hated rain, thunder and lightening, she amazed those of us who lived outside of Florida by riding out many storms. During one of the recent hurricanes, we called from Kansas City to see how she was holding up. She answered the phone and calmly explained that she was sitting in the closet with the cordless phone and a flashlight, perched on one of her plastic white folding chairs, patiently waiting for the winds to die down.