For a month now, my husband’s 95-year-old grandfather had been fighting off the malach hamaves. Until now, Zaidy had been in the lead. Could it be his combatant’s turn? My emotional high took a steep dip as I readied my kids for the day, hoping that their Simchas Purim would not be marred by my pain.

Beep. Crisis averted. Blood pressure stabilized.

The next couple of hours were a blur of Purim bliss, cranky kids, soaking socks and traffic. Mishloach manos was given with fanfare, sticky hands dipping into their private stash of nosh. Finally, we staggered into my in-law’s home for the seudah.

Beep. Minyan. Now!

The men jumped up, brushing crumbs off their laps and beards. With barely enough time to swallow their last bite, they were off. I took a steadying breath and started clearing the table.

Beep. He’s stable.

Between the constant knocks from collectors and trays of food, we kept getting hospital status updates. Zaidy was a trouper. We got through the meal riding highs and lows. Groups of exuberant boys kept streaming through the door, lugging their boom boxes, overflowing with Purim spirit. The children kept running to the window, waving their hands, trying to hail large groups of bochurim, their shrieks of laughter mixing with the sighs of the adults seated at the table.

Sometime before bentshing, Zaidy took his final bow. With a parting sigh, he bid farewell to his hundreds of eineklach and to This World. After a lifetime of avodas Hashem he was ready to meet his Maker, on this holy day of Purim.

His levayah was a sight to behold, kings and frogs standing shoulder to shoulder with princesses and gypsies. The little cousins, delighted at this unexpected reunion, were happily showing off their costumes while their mothers were passing out tissues and their fathers issuing instructions.

After the levayah, we returned to Zaidy’s house, unfamiliar in its state of mourning. I watched as a Misaskim truck pulled up and a six-foot-tall giraffe came tumbling out. Head bobbing awkwardly to the side and tail swishing behind, the spotted mammal began shlepping tables, chairs, and cushions into the home. I stood there, my heart constricting in gratitude.

I’ll never know this young man’s name — and yet, I’ll never forget him. He didn’t know our Zaidy, he had no connection with him or with our family, yet he dropped everything, he left the gaiety and partying behind, and came rushing in to do this mitzvah.

It had been a long day, and I could barely process the kaleidoscope of emotions and experiences. But within the pain, for a moment, I found consolation in a giraffe.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 731)