Never a flatterer, Mom always told the truth. And so would I

A

round this time of year, I visit my grandmother. I do the half-hour drive from my home in Woodmere, generally find parking on Main Street, and enter the gates marked Mount Hebron Cemetery. Sometimes I’ll find a few small stones on top of the matzeivah, and I’ll know that my father, an only child, must have been there before me.

Just a bit to the left, somewhat hidden, is a tiny stone inscribed Baby Schall, marking the resting place of the stillborn baby my Bubby Sarah carried, birthed, and then buried over 90 years ago. It makes me sad to think that his memory is now mostly insignificant to anyone on this planet aside from the Ribbono Shel Olam.

I enjoy walking among the kevarim, reading headstones. It’s nostalgic to see names of a bygone era like Sadie, Bessie, and Gussie. I’m always on the lookout for someone with my name, Michla; I’ve only met two or three soul sisters over the years. And I’ve never personally met anyone who shares my other Yiddish name: Buna. At my wedding 40 years ago, the mesader kiddushin asked my uncle at least five times, “Is that Buna or Bunya?” (I hadn’t even known Bunya existed outside of my children’s favorite storybook Bunya the Witch.)

On my strolls through the cemetery, I’ve noticed something interesting. Although many of the deceased may have achieved worthy titles in their lifetimes, the only descriptions on their headstones are beloved wife, mother, and grandmother. Not doctor, baker, or window washer. Not even rocket scientist.

It’s sobering. What really counts, what lasts for eternity is our relationships with the people we love, and the quality of those relationships.