NOT SO SWEET SIXTEEN

  The clock has run its circle round the year and Chanukah is upon us. Always a holiday associated with triumph of liberty over tyranny, of good food, games, family gatherings, it was and remains, for most, a time of joy. Sixteen years ago, that balloon of joy, of fun and good times was punctured. The patriarch of the family, the glue that held us together, the man to whom we turned in moments of need, for advice, for encouragement - he was gone. No longer could we pick up the phone for a chat, an answer to a question. No more, "Hey, Pop, what's up?" No more call of "Esty" coming from his office. 

Along with us multitudes of people mourned this loss, and honored him with an overflowing crowd, filling the rooms of the funeral home and standing outside. Jews of all levels of observance, Arabs and Moslems, White, Black, Christian, Jew and non-Jew. It did not matter, for to all of them he was an important part of their lives, had been helped, advised, encouraged at some point or other. He was there, at the end of the phone or the top of the stairs in his office.

Yet for all the demands on his time, he always and forever found time for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They, in turn, adored him, the little ones thinking he was their natural and beloved playmate. I loved him. And I hurt at the loss, the gaping hole in my heart and life.

The final activity with my Pop was the lighting of the first candle of Chanukah. My Pop, who loved all that had to do with Judaism, its rites and holidays, could only sit for a bit in a chair, could no longer open his eyes nor speak. We knew he was in his last days. But for him and for us, there was one more moment of shared joy, even as the tears poured down our faces. This man, at the doorstep of death, heard us as we began the lighting ceremony and sang the blessings. His hand was raised, a smile on his face as he waved his hand in time with the singing of the blessings and the traditional songs that followed. I bless the fact that I was granted the privilege of seeing that, of living that, a moment that will live forever in my heart.

Two nights later I flew home, overnight, to gather some clothing and other needs for I knew the end was nigh. In the middle of the night the phone rang and we knew the cause. A wonderful agent found us seats in the first plane out and home we flew, only this time there was an emptiness in that home, one never to be filled again.

So here we are, Chanukah again, and soon enough the night of the fourth candle will be lit and there will be no Pop, no playmate, only the emptiness of a missing, beloved man. An honored and respected man. My Pop. My Dad. My Daddy. Sixteen years of that gaping emptiness, of no one on the other end of the phone, no more advice from that quarter. Not such a sweet Sweet Sixteen.

I miss you so much, Pop. I know you are there, with your beloved Blanchie, watching over us, taking joy in the marriage of Rivky, arguing with G-d over perceived unfairness and situations that need remediation. I will never stop loving you or missing you. Nor will the rest of us. You have left a legacy that will last forever.