Bubby, who would greet us with Bazooka gum and Torino chocolates every Erev Pesach, as surely as my father would bring home the matzah.

Bubby, who would actually keep her ear on the receiver when I placed mine on the keyboard, the only one willing to listen to my “music” and then shower me with generous accolades.

Bubby, my single greatest cheerleader, who somehow arranged for my first poem to be published even before I knew what publishing meant.

Bubby, who tried ardently to plant a connection between us and every fifth cousin, neither of whom had much interest in kindling one (at the time).

Bubby, who brought three of her childless friends to my eighth-grade graduation, so they could relish some nachas from the grandchildren she chose to share (despite our rolling eyes and stifled giggles).

Bubby, who used to sleep in the bed next to mine after every Seder for as long as I can remember. I’d watch her chest rise and fall with each breath.

There’s no rising and falling now.

One of the three women advises us to wash our hands, then guides us in doing what we came to do. My sister and I stand on either side of Bubby — or rather, her body — each of us holding an edge of the gartel, the fabric belt tied around the Jewish body prior to burial. Alternating, we tie the belt a total of 13 times, counting in Hebrew: Alef, beis, gimmel, daled, hei…yud-alef, yud-beis, yud-gimmel.

Thirteen — corresponding to the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy that Hashem displays toward His beloved nation, each and every member of it. Even as Bubby’s eternal soul departs from its temporary residence and returns to the World of Truth, leaving her lifeless body lying before us on this night before her funeral.

I feel small, confronted with this grim reminder that the endless trivialities I’m busy with are but a fanciful mirage in a world that runs so much deeper.

Ironic, isn’t it, that nothing arouses us from our spiritual slumber, propels us to infuse more meaning into our lives, than the prospect of death.

After 13 ties, we’re given the signal; our “job” is done.

Is that all?

I’m not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved at the relative simplicity of the deed.

We are escorted out without fanfare, no door prize other than the gift of oxygen and life and the opportunity to grasp it for all it’s worth.

It’s hard to close the door behind us, leaving Bubby in the hands of those who will prepare her for her final resting place.

But I know — without a doubt — that one day we will all be reunited, like loved ones returning from abroad.

Maybe even bearing Torino chocolate for good measure.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 852)