Yes, Margalit thought, Abuelita taught me about words and their power… Maybe that’s why I think more than I speak?

Margalit watched her father walk to the front of the gathered crowd, so many of them family, but so many neighbors and friends as well. Seeing him deliver a hesped was surreal, everything was surreal. This whole day was one cloudy dream.

 “...Our Abuelita…” Margalit tuned back in to her father’s words. Just the way he said her name, his voice hushed with reverence, told a story. Abuelita had been known as a holy woman. Many people, even those outside their family, believed she had a special gift, that her tefillos were always answered and that her brachos came true.

As beautiful as the numerous speeches were, with all the stories that were told, shared, passed around, no words could ever describe who Abuelita was. She was tiny. She was so old; no one really knew how old she was. She herself probably hadn’t known how old she was. She was thin, with bird-like bones, a sparrow — no, a hummingbird. Yet she was powerful, an eagle.

She was something bigger than age, because really, her essence, her stories, her lessons were forever. And she was a giant of spirit. Yet she was a woman of few words. When those words were given, each one was valued like a precious gem. Yes, Margalit thought, Abuelita taught me about words and their power… Maybe that’s why I think more than I speak?

Margalit listened and remembered, and was surprised when the speeches ended. She wasn’t surprised to discover twin tracks of tears running down her face as the last words were spoken.