Would location be something my mother would care about in the afterlife? It’s hard to say

H

ow do you casually pencil in something like purchasing a final resting place for your mom?

Sometimes I tell myself I really should do it, that it would be a kind of protective amulet to ensure my mother’s long life.

My perfectionism nags at me, demanding resolution here, but nothing about this is perfect.

The truth is, I’d never seriously thought about buying a plot — not before the stroke. It just wasn’t a conversation my mother would have entertained. Our talks were about the royal family, the weather, and updates about the kids. Never mortality. My mother kept things pleasant and surface-level — she had a gift for small talk and a way of gently steering away from anything too heavy.

I don’t know what my mother would have wanted in a burial plot. Would location be something she’d care about in the afterlife? It’s hard to say. I’m not happy about being forced to do this with zero direction. And as her only child, I have to do it alone.

Mom suffered a hemorrhagic stroke in 2023, and it altered her irrevocably into someone different. She attended a shul event the day before. Now she lives in a rehabilitation center and depends on a ventilator to breathe.

When I visit, I talk to her — sharing stories, updates, or just filling the silence. Sometimes she smiles or raises her eyebrows, and on a really good day, she kisses me goodbye. She’s considered medically stable, but her body continues to struggle. Recurrent pneumonia is a constant concern and keeps her condition fragile. Now, I would happily chat about the gloomy weather we were experiencing.

The benefits of being an only child include attention and resources, but they are countered by a yearning for companionship and the ache of loneliness. No one fully shares my experiences or stands on my team.

That loneliness pressed in on the day I finally turned into the cemetery, lowering the volume of the music. I followed the signs to the cemetery office. A note on the building instructed visitors to come to the window for assistance. I hesitated. It felt strangely casual for something so weighty. I walked to the office entrance and then circled back to the window. As I stood there, a voice called from a parked car, “Someone will come to the window if you wait there.”

The mesh screen lifted, and two women stood a socially appropriate distance from me. One of them asked, “How can I help you?”

I stumbled over my words. “I have some questions about purchasing a plot.”

“How many plots are you looking to purchase?”

“Just one. It’s for my mom.”

The second woman asked, “Is she Jewish?”

“Yes. I want to do this now so I don’t have to do it when I’m feeling more emotional.”

“I’ll meet you outside, and we can drive to where there are available plots.”

The woman introduced herself as JoAnn, and we each got into our cars. Concrete pillars marked each part of the cemetery, dividing it into brotherhoods and sisterhoods — little monuments to community within the greater silence of death. We drove at the unwritten, acceptable speed limit of 15 miles per hour and pulled over near a section with open space and large, mature trees. She pulled out a folded cloth with a grid drawn on it, names handwritten in different colors.

“Do you see the third row?”

I nodded.

“Do you like that location?” she asked.

My eyes welled up. “I guess for a forever home, it’s fine.”

JoAnn looked on the grid to see if there was anything in the shadier section.

I asked a rav to make this decision for me — a decision I could not carry alone. Sitting in the parking lot along Route 3, beneath the glow of the perimeter lights, I asked my question: Where should I bury my mother? The answer I got was this.

She will not be next to my father or next to her parents in London. She will be close to me in Passaic.

When visitors wander through the cemetery, will they wonder why she is alone next to strangers? Will they construct a narrative that isn’t true? Will I create a stone that answers the questions? There is something about this that makes me inexplicably sad.

Should I have asked about her potential neighbors? Will she be lonely by herself? Our mortal selves want to attribute human emotions to the afterlife, as though it might soften the unknowable.

JoAnn told me I should act fast — plots were selling quickly. I was almost relieved; her sales pitch broke the tension. She added, “I know some people are superstitious,” then let the thought trail off. For the low price of $4,000, I could have the deed.

I told her that I’d think about it and asked if I should backtrack to the entrance. She said the road ahead would lead me out.

I asked a close friend to join me at the cemetery for a second opinion. She walked slowly among the stones, pausing now and then to read a name. At one point, she asked, “Do you worry about stepping on people?”

I worry about everything. The plots are so close together, and there’s hardly space to stand and visit without feeling like you’re intruding. She suggested that I wait and see if a different spot comes up. It was a logical idea.

I still haven’t purchased the plot, and I can’t really tell you why. My mother’s condition is medically stable, and perhaps this step feels too real and scary. Or maybe it’s because part of me really wishes someone else would carry this burden. I don’t want to have to choose a space in the graveyard at all.

This is one decision I never wanted to make, yet here I am — trying to impose order on something that will never feel orderly.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 962)