That year, I’d decided to “do” mishloach manos for some unfathomable reason. I’d baked dozens of small challahs and ordered a case of mini bottles of wine. It had been years since I’d really “thrown” myself into mishloach manos like that. I stayed up all night wrapping them, but I hadn’t thought about how I was going to deliver them. My “delivery people” of past decades had long since grown up and had their own mishloach manos routes to cover.

So there was poor Saadya, stuck at home. I asked him what I should do with all the beautifully prepared packages meant for all the neighbors. Though I knew he really didn’t like going in and out of other people’s houses, he gave me that, “Okay, Mom, I’ll do it for you,” smile, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he and I started filling shopping bags with the mishloach manos packages.

For the first time in years, the two of us walked arm in arm, Saadya schlepping the packages. He marched in and out of the homes of neighbors he hadn’t seen since he’d moved out a few years ago doing deliveries, while I stood outside each house, waiting for him. He proudly returned with the mishloach manos he’d been given in return. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I can still almost physically feel how secure and happy I felt leaning on his very strong arm as we walked from one house to another, Saadya getting a warm greeting from all our neighbors.

We finished our rounds and turned our thoughts to the seudah. Saadya hadn’t been with us at our family seudos for the past several years. This year’s seudah was to be held at one of his siblings’ houses. It turned out to be a most joyful event. All his siblings were there, some of whom Saadya hadn’t seen in a long time. There was singing, and Saadya danced with the guests.

When the seudah was over, I asked Saadya if he wanted to go straight back to his apartment, but he said no, he’d left his backpack at our house, and as well as some items he wanted to pick up, so he’d go back tomorrow.

We drove home together. He said a happy “Good night” and went up to his room. In the morning, I waited for him to come down and finally called his cell. “Oh, Mom, I saw your door was closed, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I took an Uber back to my apartment,” he told me.

It was the last time I saw him. A few days later, I developed symptoms of this new virus, and 12 days later, on Erev Shabbos, his counselor told me they were isolating him as he had a fever. After that Shabbos, he was admitted to the hospital, was intubated, and was niftar five weeks later.

I always felt that Hashem had arranged that Purim for us. It was a farewell to all the neighbors who’d watched him grow up. And Saadya and his siblings got to celebrate Purim seudah together. As for myself, Hashem had planned a special day for Saadya and me to spend with one another.

Purim. It will never be the same for me. It’s become the most beautiful and precious of days to remember, especially the personal “mishloach manos” — a day with my son Saadya — the Ribbono shel Olam, Who sends all our gifts, sent me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 935)