|I am sure that no expense was spared.|
Next week will mark one year since my father's last wife passed away.
In the Jewish tradition, the eldest child of the deceased will read the final Kadish, a prayer that they are supposed to read every morning for the date of death until the anniversary of their passing. This is done in their mother's name. In hardcore Judaic terms, the gravestone is unveiled, a life remembered, and life for the living goes on.
The woman, who was his final marriage, meant so many things to all of us. Because she did so much, that we cannot forget her. And her actions left an indelible mark on all of us.
Despite our history, I vowed that I would respect her passing for that year, not so much as mourning, but as the polite convention that my parents would expect of me. I am, after all, their child.
In other words, I would refrain from saying anything. That's right, anything.
And for the most part, it looks like I am going to get a gold star on this one, folks.
Read that as you will, there is as much in what is written as there is in what is unwritten.
On the anniversary of my father's wife's death, I am released from that vow.
I will be in Baltimore, observing that day with an exhale of gratitude that one has when you out swim a man-eating shark. Perhaps I will treat the husband and myself to a good restaurant.
Send me your good energy.