One should never delay a burial, but my father’s wishes had been clear

T

he hurricane struck, and we felt paralyzed.

Only days earlier, we’d spent an incredibly emotional Rosh Hashanah at my parents’ home, gathered around my father’s hospice bed. He had mustered up the strength to come to one of the Yom Tov meals, sitting thoughtfully at the head of the table he once commanded. We sang and laughed, shared stories, and cried. We desperately tried to create just a few more memories as we cherished those last precious moments.

Yom Tov ended, and my parents insisted that we go back to our families to give our own children some semblance of routine during this tumultuous time. Hesitantly, we kissed our father goodbye and told him we’d be back soon.

Just moments before Shabbos Shuvah began, with my siblings and I dispersed around the country, my father’s neshamah left This World. We sat alone in our respective homes and tried to process our loss. It was an unbearable Shabbos — 25 hours of confusion, shock, and isolation. Early Sunday morning, we traveled back to my hometown for the levayah.

But there was a problem.