Yizkor

In the Time of our Sorrow

By Rachel Kann

My tongue wants to un-gate the flood, it is

an urgent compulsion to spill knotted guts,

in these weeks of banned melody,

my lips wants to rebel,

to howl,

to sing

of my suffering,

of all my shortcomings,

every rejection,

every threat to our collective existence,

the abandonment unabated,

of how my heart is a bitter almond,

spilling with cyanide,

splitting its endocarp,

longing only for the orchard,

of how my heart is a heavy stone,

flack-jacketed,

sallow and sinking in my chest,

how a glut of shrapnel is stuck in my throat,

of how I am blindfolded in love’s minefield,

frozen, unable to navigate the danger

lurking beneath the surface,

hurtful blossoms

lying in night-wait

only to explode,

detonate the light of day,

of the world’s unending

re-dedication to the re-destruction

of temples.

My heart wants to take flight,

transcend the gravity

of this misbegotten planet.

Before the unkindness of ravens and

murder of crows can escape the open moan,

I am circle-dancing,

hand in hand with so many wondrous

warrior women,

with Magda and Miriam,

who came through the dark tunnel of the Shoah,

who are here with me,

present and spilling light.

This is beyond awe,

beyond gratitude.

We weave a grapevine

up the trunk of the almond tree,

we are strengthened by our suffering.

We are indestructible.

This world crushes us,

we refuse to turn poisonous,

dancing and rooting and branching

despite this.

In glorious defiance,

we pour ourselves forward

in honeyed amaretto flooding,

we sweeten the darkness,

light the bitterness.

We kasher every unholy implement

used against us.

We ready them for service

in the holy temple of our most

miraculous dance:

our continued existence.

At the rising sun and at its going down; We remember them.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter; We remember them.

At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring; We remember them.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer; We remember them.

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of the autumn; We remember them.

At the beginning of the year and when it ends; We remember them.

As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as We remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength; We remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart; We remember them.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make; We remember them.

When we have joy we crave to share; We remember them.

When we have achievements that are based on theirs; We remember them.

For as long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as, We remember them.

“When will I be myself again?”

Some Tuesday, perhaps,

In the late afternoon,

Sitting quietly with a cup of tea

And a cookie;

Or Wednesday, same time or later,

You will stir from a nap and see her;

You will pick up the phone to call her;

You will hear her voice – unexpected advice –

And maybe argue.

And you will not be frightened,

And you will not be sad,

And you will not be alone,

Not alone at all,

And your tears will warm you.

But not today,

And not tomorrow,

And not tomorrow’s tomorrow,

But someday,

Some Tuesday, late in the afternoon,

Sitting quietly with a cup of tea

And a cookie

And you will be yourself again.

Shared by Bayit, Beside Still Waters 

The dining room table was simply resplendent. Covered in her now off-white lace table cloth, the oak wooden table stood sturdily atop the navy tuft pile carpet, though every year a few more shims were added for leveling. On the soft carpet, slight impressions from hundreds of chair legs left indented memories of the past. 

In the corners of the dining room, white built-in cabinets displayed China dishes with tiny blue and white flowers, wine glasses of every size, a shelf reserved entirely for Shabbat candlesticks, and a rudimentary  hanukkiah  made of wood and bolts, the sole survivor of Sunday school, now coated with wax.

The door was open to Elijah. At one end of the table sat his goblet full of wine, waiting for his visit, while across from it, Miriam’s cup stood in prominence. The children, who were now adults, still shot furtive glances at these cups. Would the wine disappear this year like it always had?

As in every year, there was too much food. He always cooked for twelve, even though now, there were only five or six people who might return to this table for Passover. 

In the foyer, a few table leaves leaned against a corner.

“Honey, we don’t need them this year,” he suggested to his wife.

“No. Let's put them in – just in case.” 

“But Mom,” their adult children echoed, “its just the six of us. And the leaves are really heavy. It's not worth breaking your back over.”

“No. No. Let's put them in – just in case.” 

And so they compromised. This year, one leaf would be used. The other would stand lonely in another room.

“And Mom, we don’t need extra chairs either.”

It’s in these moments, joyous holiday meals and family celebrations, that we remember them. It is in the smell of spices so fragrant, the taste of sweet wine, and the shadow of candles flickering, that we recall the days when they sat next to us and sometimes we can still feel their warmth. 

As we recall the story of the Jewish people, of our redemption from slavery in Egypt, we remember also the story of our own families: the journeys and experiences that shaped us, the people and places, and the faces that sat across from us, shared meals with us, shared the story with us – for so many years.

We can’t help but want to set a place for them at the table, hoping that they will walk in the door years after they’ve departed. We can’t help but want to hear their voices singing, laughing. We can’t help but want to smell their perfume, to taste their cooking, to see their smile.

While our memories are but meager substitutes for the warm hug we so long to experience, may we find solace and comfort in knowing that while they may be gone, our memories endure.

Deep appreciation to Shomer Collective for their partnership on all of Recustom’s end of life rituals. We are grateful to Rabbi Nina Mizrahi, Devon Spiers and Dina Stander for their contributions and to Sefaria for the use of their site. We are grateful to Bayit and Rabbi Rachel Barenblat for making their Beside Still Waters prayers and readings available to the Recustom community. And we thank ReformJudaism.org, Lab/Shul and the many individuals named in this booklet who shared their creativity and their writings, including those originally published in Laments & Kavannot for The Journey, produced for Kavod V’Nichum’s annual North America Chevra Kadisha Conference.  Each piece has been shared with the author’s permission.  

While there is no blessing to recite while lighting the memorial candle, it is appropriate to think about the memory of the loved one/s you mourn as you light the candle. You may wish to place a photograph of anyone you are remembering next to the candle.