“T

atte leben, ich vill dir fregen, der fihr kashes…”

Dear Tatty, I want to ask you the four questions.

But there’s a twist on the time-honored phrase, “Why is this night different from all the other nights of the year?” Instead, I’ll ask, “Why is this year different from all the other years of my life? All the other years you were with us, Tatty, but this year, you’re no longer here.”

You left so suddenly; one Motzaei Shabbos a week before Rosh Hashanah, you said Selichos — did you have a feeling it would be your final Vidui? — and by the next morning you were gone.

Seven months have passed since then. Seven months of living without a father, of aveilus, of guilt and sadness and grief and loss, of thinking of you every day, of longing to hear your voice just one more time.

A few months ago, my daughter’s class put on a bas mitzvah production. This performance is one of the highlights of the girls’ elementary school years. They talk about it for months, practice for weeks, and remember it forever. They dress up, sing, dance, act, take endless pictures of themselves and their friends.

I tried using earplugs to block out the music, but who was I kidding? The beautiful, soul-stirring songs tore through the rubber and tugged at my heart. I removed the earplugs and left the hall.

Tatty, I felt your presence so much then. I felt you sharing in our nachas at this special milestone. Although I couldn’t be near my daughter, and you couldn’t be near me, I felt the presence of you both deep inside my heart.

In some strange way, Tatty, I want to hold on to this year of aveilus. I’ve been told that in the niftar’s first year of passing, his neshamah still drifts between This World and The Next, ever so slowly and gradually transitioning upward and away from this World of Falsehood to the World of Truth.

In this year, I can still do so much for you. I can try to rectify what I failed to do in your lifetime, I can still be mekayem kibbud av by doing mitzvos as a zechus for your neshamah, to help it find its rightful place in the highest spheres of Gan Eden. I try to give tzedakah, to prepare for Shabbos ahead of time, to be careful not to hurt anyone, to do all the things that exemplified you when you were still alive.

It’s hard, Tatty, to live up to your high standards, but I’m trying. And I feel your presence with me, encouraging me, believing in me.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 639)