I didn’t need to worry about what my mother would say or do, because she wasn’t here to say or do it
I feel like I’m too young to light a yahrtzeit candle.
My mother died when I was 25 years old. Her yahrtzeit is Rosh Chodesh Iyar. At the time, we were living in America, where Pesach is eight days long. Since I am notoriously bad with Hebrew dates, I relied on the fact that she passed away a week after Motzaei Pesach.
My method for remembering was foolproof. Easy to remember, Pesach is always eight days (right?). Pesach that year ended on a Thursday evening. I remembered the hectic Friday preparations. Scrambling to get challah made (shlissel challah, what a zechus!). Pulling leftovers out of the fridge. Commenting on the incongruity of eating Pesach food with challah. And, of course, finding that last Pesach Tupperware container in the back corner of the fridge, only after everything else had been cleaned and put away.
I remember the next Friday. Sitting by her bed while she received dialysis. Glancing at my watch, calculating how much time I had until Shabbos. Should I go home? Or stay with her? The decision was made for me as her breaths increasingly rattled in her chest and she left This World.
Every year I put a yahrtzeit candle on my post-Pesach grocery list. As the rest of my family is not observant, I held on to lighting for my mother as sacrosanct. I was probably one of the last Jewishly affiliated people in my family. I had a responsibility. I was literally trying to keep the torch of my mother’s memory going.
The year we moved to Israel was a year of firsts. First time living in a foreign country. First time sending our daughter off to a “real” school. And the first time (at least since I became frum), we would be holding only one Pesach Seder. And, as is the custom here in Israel, Pesach is only seven days. Not eight like everywhere else.
The excitement that first year of observing Pesach as the Torah describes was palpable. As the chag ended that year, my husband and I felt privileged to be in our land, celebrating Pesach as we felt it should be.
Then began my internal reminders. Pesach ended on Wednesday night, so the next day is Thursday, so, Mommy’s yahrtzeit is next Thursday, I kept telling myself. Thursday, don’t forget, Thursday. That week, I dutifully bought the candle. Placed it in its place of honor on the stovetop. Waiting for the sun to set crimson in the sky, the smell of graphite filled my nose as the match burst into flames. As match met wick, my eyes pricked with tears, as they always did.
After reflecting for a few minutes, I turned to take care of dinner and moderate the usual sibling squabbles as they grabbed my skirt. As the evening wore on, I would glance back at the flame, secure that I had fulfilled my task.
Later, after the kids were in bed and my husband came home from work, chatting over dinner, he commented on the candle. Then paused.