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Di zun vet aruntergeyn hintern barg
We did the unveiling with the linen cloth that belonged to my mother's grandmother, in which my grandmother always wrapped the afikomen at Pesach; my mother does the same service with it now. It is ivory-colored, fine enough with wear to see through: unraveling at two edges so that it looks a little like the fringes of a tallit katan. I don't know who made it. The rabbi had brought a packet of cheesecloth and little tacks of painter's tape to hold it down, but the linen fit exactly over the nameplate. We had already placed our stones: from New York City, from the sea. (The cemetery has a little granite bowl of stones now, for visitors who I guess can't be bothered to collect their own? I have more than mixed feelings about this.) There were prayers and some poems: none that spoke especially to me, none that offended. My aunt performed the actual unveiling. I remember the mourner's Kaddish by a melody I first heard at Brandeis. Standing in the dry bright cold, I had my hands in my pockets for warmth, wearing my leather jacket and my green scarf and my flat cap, which this time last year was my grandfather's. Afterward we ate at Duckfat on Middle Street (by recommendation of my brother, who was correct: house-made apple vinegar soda with honey and maple, salted caramel milkshake, duck confit panino and fries to rival the Friendly Toast's) and celebrated my aunt's birthday three days early because she's flying back to California tomorrow and drove the next two hours home. We lit the Hanukkah candles at the kitchen table, the fifth night for remembrance.
Shadows and sun.
Shadows and sun.
no subject
As a person who has at various times carried stones in my pocket, I definitely understand bringing your own stones.