Sadness Pocketed

I have sadness pocketed.

I walk around smiling. I take care of my kids.

I order two pies of pizza and fries please.

I say thank you and smile.

But, when I walk to my car-

I put my hands in my pocket and feel the sadness.

I have sadness pocketed.

I say, "Thank G-d, fine."

When they ask me how I am.

I say, "She is so strong."

When they ask me about my mom.

I smile and wave,

and watch them watch me.

"So sad." I hear them say, "So sorry."

I smile,

"It's OK."

See, I'm smiling. It's really OK.

I walk away and keep smiling.

Such a stupid grin I have plastered on my face.

Do you think I fooled them all?

Do you think they think I have nothing in my pockets?

School Notes

I told my daughters teacher about you.

I wanted her to know that my daughter was loved by you.

That she is still the same seven and a half year old,

but she is missing a great love.

Her teacher smiled and welled up,

she said 34 is oh, so young!

Imagine if I had told her how you sat cross legged on the floor and played Polly pockets with my girls.

How you noticed things about each one of them and made them feel special.

How when you came to visit you unpacked the most thoughtful gifts,

wrapped with love and little notes.

Imagine if I told her how deeply we miss you.

How we have sadness shared between us.

I Sing Out Of Tune Now

I have not listened to music yet.

I was not allowed to for 30 days and now I am afraid to.

Words are so hopeful when strung together in song,

"Its going to be you and me forever."

So hopeful.

My hope has left me a realist.

Sometimes the worst thing that can happen does happen.

My sister loved songs. She loved them all.

I hear her in every melody, I hear her in every chorus.

So hopeful. So happy.

In ever psalm my mother utters,

I hear my mothers sweet, pure voice and it makes me hear my sister.

It's an echo.

Sing to me.

Sing for me.

The radio is different.

I am afraid of the songs that might come on, the emotions that might get released.

The memories that might find me.

Because we all know I am hiding.

Where I am the music does not play.

Downloading

I know it will be here soon.

The wave of sadness that can not be held.

I know, because I have held it before.

I have held it close to my chest.

My arms overflowing with this great sadness.

I have carried it out of my house,

and into my car,

and drove it over to my mothers.

"Here mommy, " I say clutching my chest, "I am this sad."

But, she stands there too with her sadness.

Stands there smiling at me.

"Be thankful that she was your sister." Her smile tells me.

I know it's coming.

Tonight I put my daughters to bed.

I placed supper on a plate for my husband.

I kissed the kids, and read them stories.

I thought how good it will feel to scream in the shower.

I know it's coming.

I have held it in before.

I have spoken to my brothers of every possible situation,

all the what ifs and what did we haves?

A lifetime of love in just 34 years is too short.

It overflows in sadness.

It's almost here now.

I am really too little to feel this sad.

I am just a younger sister.

It's 99 percent here now,

this sadness.

You Are Our Heart

I'm tired, because exhaustion has made my body soft.

Soft and easy to hurt.

I feel the pain of everyday corners striking me on my sides.

I bang into people words and find them so hurtful.

"Everyone" They say.

I wonder who "everyone" is? And who it leaves out?

I let myself wonder and watch "everyone."

"Everyone" in my family sits in groups.

We marvel at our yesterdays and cant fathom tomorrow without Adina.

We hold up pictures to the light and see things we never saw before.

Adina, you were so beautiful to the world. You were so treasured by us.

Everyone can see that.

Everyone knows.

I want to tell everyone that we are devoted to your memory.

That we learn from the way you lived and loved.

I want everyone to know that you were my sister.

Everyone.

I let the words find a way to my heart.

It stings.

Everyone.

Gratitude to G-d

My parents keep telling me that we have to say Thank you for the gift of my sister. That we must be thankful to Hashem for giving us the gift that was Adina. I want to say sorry, and forgive me, and I miss you. I want to say remember when, and remember always, and remind me if I ever forget. But, tonight I want to just say thank you.
Thank you Hashem for giving me and Liora the greatest older sister. Thank you for making her kind, and warm, and nurturing. Thank you for the bedtime stories she used to tell my younger brothers and I got to listen to. Thank you for our singing contests, that she always won.

Thank you Hashem for making us be able to remember and smile.

Adina had the most original sense of humor. She kept us gals on our toes. She loved her family so very much. I look at my niece, her husband, her in laws. My brothers, My sister, My parents, My children, and feel that they have been loved by Adina. We all were. We are all stamped with her love.Thank you Hashem for blessing us with Adina in our family. Thank you for leaving us with the warm imprint in our hearts.

Thank you Hashem for the gift of my sister.
Thank you for the tremendous light she was in this world.

Thank you for allowing me the privilege of spending her last days together with her.
Thank you for entrusting us with such a special Neshama.
Thank you Hashem.

A letter I found from the beginning of August

Here it is.

I will write my feelings out and then they will be recognized. 'You see that?" Right there!" My friends can say, "She felt sad. Do you see the way she did that? Between the periods." Its all here. All the pain of no longer being me. Here it is. You can say you received it. I will have written it. Then I can go and on and drown myself in high fats and feign interest when I hear people talking about weight watchers.

The pain is that deep.

Its not even in the words anymore. I used to be able to write and show people my pain in the way my words were running. The way my commas, lined themselves up after words like deflated, alone, worried, sick, sister. Now, I want to get out a camera and capture the images. Because I cant say the words you need to hear to feel like you are living inside my head. Why should I be so alone? Let me make up a photo blog and point in silence.

"You see?" I will ask you, without meeting your eyes, "You see my family?"

And I will take out all my childhood photos and let you adore us. We are that freakin' adorable.

'Here, now please 2009."

My sister.

My father unable to drive back to Toronto until the pain is under control. Pik lines of morphine. My sister reading sophie kinsellas new book. My brothers reading but not registering my pins.

A picture of me, alone.

My younger brothers baking zucchini and sweet potatoes in the oven.

There are some pictures you can not describe. You hear it in your younger brothers tone.

He is in New york.

You are far enough away to just call in.

Dialing. Dialing.

There never is the answer you want to hear waiting for you.

You have to follow it down all the familiar halls.

The way the hospitals do it is damning.

I have been with her there.

I can see my brothers in the cafeteria.

halls and halls of hospital bed.

You see this picture,

this is not my sister in a hospital bed.

This is not her with open scars, and marks.

She is never sick to me.

The words they use to describe her feel like words threading a necklace.

The ones you make in camp out of cereal. The ones I eat.

If pictures can say a thousand words, then these are mine.

But the picture worth the most is the one I can not take.

Because I am not close enough.

Ezra sent me a word, I have a picture of it in my head.

He said, "the doctor said they wouldn't be giving her this much morphine if it wasn't terminal."

I cant not spell.

Screen Savers

Mourning looks like my younger brothers masked in scruffy beards.

It's the sight of my family eating random foods to try and find something that does not taste like sadness.

My brother made ten eggs with onions last night. We had a buffet of eggs, cookies, Popsicles and pesto sauce.

What a spread of sadness.

I say, "Can I use the computer?" Because I need a screen in front of my face.

We all do.

There are four macbooks open to different pages.

But we, are all seeing the same things.

Adina, how we loved you.

Full On Sad

I drink fruit punch out of snack size cartons.

I cry in the shower.

I eat cookies in dozens. Eggs in twos.

I smile,

because I don't want to feel this sad.

I'm managing my anger.

I file it away in neat compartments,

"To eat now," To eat later," and "to not eat."

To eat now tastes like butter, Crisco and white bread.

To eat later,

tastes like chicken, noodles and vegetables.

To not eat,

tastes like words.

Words like "Deserve," and "Unforgivable."

But I'm not angry anymore-

I'm not even hungry anymore.

I'm just full.

Speech From August 17, 2009

Adina, you asked me to speak, you said, "Naomi read one of your letters." Because you knew that what I could not say to you, I wrote for you. Tonight I came home after you closed your eyes with a perfect, beautiful smile on your lips and I can not find the right words. You had them all. You knew what to say and you watched your words and never said things you shouldn't have said. Your speech was perfect. I am writing the letter you asked me to write, but I will forever be rewriting what I want to write to you in my heart.
You were the greatest older sister to me and liora and you were the treasured younger sibling of the older kids. Last night I stood in the hospital listening to mommy talk about what type of baby you were. How even then, in infancy, you didn't want to bother anyone. You never cried, she was saying, you were a perfect baby.
I have these snapshots of you. Perfect ones. That you were beautiful inside and out, no one can deny. That you handled the pain you were in with dignity and with super human strength everyone can attest to. That you were the greatest friend to your childhood friends- is seen in the friends who visited you and held your hand these last few months. That you were an amazing, selfless, loving, and giving mother- we can all see in Liba.
But, you were my older sister. And it's from the eyes of an adoring younger sister that I am writing this letter. We will miss you forever, our family is broken without you. You did everything for us, up to and including preparing us to continue marching on now. Your greatest gift to us siblings was your unconditional love, the way you devoted yourself to us. To our lives. Your greatest chessed was the way you taught us with your emunah. You said "thank you" but a genuine thank you to Hashem even for the pain you were having. "Naomi," I can hear you saying, "everything is Hashem. There is nothing but Hashem. There is only good. Even this is good."
Adina, you were a song. You were always singing your tehillem. Your teffilos. You were always smiling.
I have the strongest memories of you taking care of me. Of you allowing me to sit in the back seat of your teenage years and watch with admiration. You cared for me so well.
As kids, the little gals were known as "adina gals sister" or "adina gals brother". It was a title we loved to have and be known by.
Liba- you are your mothers daughter. My sisters light still shining brightly in this world.
Her tune still singing, Praising Hashem.
To my brothers and liora- you are each amazing. Strong shoulders. You carried adina through these times. I know how safe adina felt with my brother ari, because she mentioned it so many times.
Adina felt blessed to be my mother and fathers daughter. She vocalized it. She got to say how much she loved being loved by them. Adina you were a gift, full of life and laughter. Your life is a gift now. One I will always treasure. Adina, please be mochel me and liora for anything we have done to you. Please forgive me and liora.

Thank you for the gift of my sister

Tonight we had a business meeting. I had to leave. They were talking of 2 months from now, six months from now, one year from now. 2 years from now. The years were just flying forwards. Every glimpse I had of this future was terrifyingly sad without my sister. It started to add up in my head. 2 months, plus 6 months, plus 2 years. I couldn't do it. I can't always think of moving forward, when backwards is where my memory roams.
In my past, I have never ending images and memories of my sister. In my future, I have none. I ate my fish in sections. Divided into; holding back my emotions, then eating them.
I felt like I would throw up when my tears starting coming. The taste of fish with my own salted waters revolted me. Something was so sad about the way I ran down four flights to my parents.
I found my grandmother watching golden girls. A funeral episode. My grandmother asked "My dear, why are you crying? Is it because the funeral is so funny?"
My father was comforting. My father! My sister would think I was crazy to come here for comfort. I should be bringing comfort, not coming with my baggage- asking them to be filled with their strength.
Please G-d let me hold onto whatever they are riding on. It is so painful without their belief. I feel so lost and terrified.
Tasting tears and fish.
Over and over again.
Swallowing my tears. Eating fish whole.
My parents have faith beyond food. I have one belief. I believe that if I eat everything. Consume it all. I will be unable to feel anything but full.
My father explained that my sister is supremely happy. That only we are in pain. He talks from one gemara to the next. One rabbi to the next. One rabbi lost a daughter.
Another rabbi lost his only daughter.
My father doesn't say he lost his daughter. But, he did. My sister is somewhere. And she isn't here with us.
My father says only the other nations rip their hair out and scratch at their faces when someone dies. Only they scream. My father says Jewish people don't do that because we believe our loved ones are somewhere better.
Only the people left here are sad.

Is it OK that in my sadness I want to be surrounded by my siblings and parents? The people who feel the loss like a gaping whole. The people who we're loved and cherished by Adina. And now have this loss looming whenever love is felt.
My mother and father need to keep comforting me because essentially I'm hopeless. I tell my parents I'm angry at what happened. But that I know we can only fear and love G-d.
My mother responds. "We have to be thankful. We have to Thank G-d. That we had our beloved sister in our family. We have to say Thank you. "

Left Behind

He says, "She left behind a daughter," Like she just left her there.

Oops, she forgot her most favorite things.

She left them right there.

Did you see that?

Her parents, her brothers, her sisters, her husband, her friends...

her child.

She left them all behind.

I hate that line,

"How many children did she leave behind?"

"She left behind a daughter."

"Her daughter is left."

My sister left nothing behind.

She was taken from us.

We are left without her.... but she did not leave behind a daughter.

My sisters last and loudest thoughts were of her daughter.

She left her in all of our arms.

Hold my daughter and love her until we meet again.

Teach her our ways and sing her our songs.

My sister tied everything up in perfect bows.

She left no strings untied.

She wrote us all letters, and spoke to us all.

She was at peace,

because she was so certain everything was for the best.

My sister did not leave behind a daughter.

I have strings, I have untied strands,

I have left so many things behind me

Unsaid words. Unfelt hugs. Untouched days.

And now,

unclaimed anger.

Grief and Grumblings

Half a sobeys cake. Guilt ridden in margarine. The way my sadness feels on empty is very different then it feels on full. I can watch my kids, and spend my days moving forward. But, every night I lie awake and know I have never left that hospital room.

I'm moving backwards now. Because I can't bare to go forward without you.

I love you, have loved you, will always love you well.

I look at my youngest daughter and feel that she was loved by you. They all were. All my girls are stamped with your love.

I notice things about them that you pointed out. That you loved about them.

They were so lucky and blessed to have you as their aunt. 

I tell them stories about you.

The littlest one says you need to redo her nail polish because it is chipping off.

You know, when I think of you, I think you did it all in 34 years.

I have perfect memories of you. Not one bad. Not one mediocre. Only perfect ones.

You were such a light in this world. We were gifted just by being related to you.

You brought our family closer together.

I work backwards.

This last trip in New york, you were soaring. You felt the holiness you were soon going to be apart of. You were so energetic, you were not sick. You weren't! The doctors told you that you were sick, but your mind was so beautifully free of all the labels on your medicine. You were full of belief. 

I sing your songs now.

I don't know all the words, and my voice isn't as sweet. I am not as peaceful nor as loving as you, but I find myself humming your songs. Singing your praise.

And you would smile, because I notice your other siblings are doing the same.

We love you so much.

I want you to feel it. I want you to look down and know how loved you are.

That we are searching through pictures, memories and letters from you just as any family would.

But....

we are different.

We have your strength, your beautiful faith, your complete trust in Hashem-

we have that still.

Its yours!

And we are holding onto it and not letting it go.

My sister,

I would love to go backwards and have been more caring. More giving. A better sister to you.

It is so cruel to have to go forward without you.

So sad.

Unbearably hard.

Please look down and see me trying for you.