IN MEMORIAM

Howard and I stand together as we light a candle. A Yarzeit, a glass of wax, a Jewish tradition, lit on the anniversary of the death of a loved one so that we remember their lives. The first Yarzeit is lit on the evening before Yom Kippur, The Day of Atonement. This candle is for all who passed. Howard and I remember our parents and Howard’s sister, Bonnie. And my beloved Aunt Julie and Uncle Sam, dear family friends who were closer than some family. They had no children, so I make sure that they are remembered. And others dear to us are reflected in the candle’s flame. A time to think and to remember.

In the early Fall, I buy six Yarzeits—one for Yom Kippur and five for our parents and Bonnie. One by one, they are lit, until the anniversaries end in February. Although this is hallowed territory, being the wise shopper that I am, I purchase all six in the Fall, when they’re on sale for the Jewish High Holidays. Lately, only Yehuda brand has been on sale. That’s been fine until this year. The candle is supposed to burn for 25 hours. Usually it burns a little longer. When we light one, I speak silently to those who passed——I talk of news of the family, remind our parents that they have great grandchildren and recount the things that would make them proud. I tell them that they are loved and missed. Do they hear me? I think so. Usually the candles last more than 25 hours. Not this year. After about eight hours, the flame died, and the wick sat, dark in a hollowed out cavern of white wax. For the first memorial, my mother’s, I wondered if she was annoyed at something. But after each one burned out, I decided that our parents and Bonnie couldn’t all be annoyed. There’s nothing that I could think of that would irritate them that much. They must have been defective candles.

What does a good consumer do about defective memorial candles? She calls the manufacturer to let them know what happened so that they can fix the problem going forward. What did I do? Nothing. I checked with friends who used Yehuda candles. They didn’t have the same experience. Maybe our family is sending an otherworldly message, protesting the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, the state of the universe. Maybe not. Probably I just bought a defective batch. Calling the company would take more effort than it was worth. It’s unlikely that they’d examine every batch, and ours could have been a fluke. I guess that I could do what my mother used to do. She had a lamp base with a penis-shaped bulb which she would plug in for each memorial. Serviceable, but not pretty. I just can’t get myself to do that. Next year, Manischewitz. Our loved ones are worth the extra 75 cents.

It’s so important to remember those who have been a major part of our lives and to ensure that they live on in memory. Whenever a relevant memory arises, I try to remember to recount it aloud to family. I remind my children of their heritage. When I buy marshmallows, I recall my mother’s candy drawer in her dining room, the first place my kids would run to when they visited her. A drawer full of bags of colored marshmallows and pastel mints. Cory and Tracy never forgot. Avery knows that I keep marshmallows and knows the history. And she carries on in her own way. Although she just turned six, for the last few years, every Halloween, she makes sure to examine her stash and take out the candies that Howard and I love, and saves them for our visits.

I tell Avery stories about family. Like the frog story. When my brother was young, he came home one day with a frog that he found at camp. My father put it in a paper cup with a lid. He felt sorry for the frog and let it go. My brother wanted another one. My father told him that he could have one “some rainy day when the sun shines”. Meaning never. But my father forgot that periodically, rain falls while the sun peeks out. Every time that happens, Avery says “It’s a frog day. Your daddy owes Uncle Scott a frog.”

One morning when she was about 3 or 4, I was telling a story about my father. Avery asked me where my father is now. Uh oh! I hadn’t thought about how to explain death. But I did a quick save and told her that sometimes, when people get very old, they float up into the sky. Avery liked that. “Where do they sleep?” “In the clouds”, I replied. That satisfied her and gave her a great visual. I told her that sometimes, when there’s an especially pretty sky, we can look up and see our family watching over us and smiling.

NEVER FORGET THOSE WHO HAVE GONE BEFORE. THOUGH THEY MAY NOT BE A PHYSICAL PRESENCE, THEIR MEMORY REMAINS AND ENRICHES OUR LIVES