Homecoming

Ten minutes to say goodbye. Stroke of the grey hair, kiss of the yellow complexion and tears masked by wrinkles. 

So went my morning. Goodbyes are never easy and my anticipation, what I would say,  was that and more. 

How to say goodbye to a mother... 

I did that. 

And as I sit bug eyed on the plane not from tears but bewilderment, I'm not sure how. 

Since my father's passing I have a sister who looks for signs. She's shared finding meaning in songs that play on her car radio. Her bed rest during pregnancy led her to a new job that brought our mom into the best care for lymphoma treatment, and of that, she was cured. 

We got two more years with our mother. And welcomed three new beautiful baby boys all named after our father. 

We won't ever know for sure what brought on pancreatic cancer so quickly. Maybe it was there or perhaps the clinical trial. We won't ever know.

My sister also would find signs within  license plates with codes she finds meaningful. Since we all cope differently, this was her way and I didn't always think much of it. 

As I was peering on my phone, I looked up for just a moment before we veered onto I95 South of the NJP towards Newark Airport. The car ahead of me read: V59 GRN. It was the only car and license plate I paid attention to. A light bulb went off in my head and I realized this was no coincidence. But I didn't understand it. I quickly snapped a photograph and asked my sister what it meant. 

The Gematria or Grun code is as follows:

Grun (V=U) 

5 women (my father would call us his girls) 

9+5=14, the grandchildren he loves and is watching over.

9 is also Ima and us girls and the husband's.

My sister proceeded:

Not much manipulation of numbers and letters needed and its a powerful message. 

He loves us all. The Grun clan on a license plate. 

I haven't seen a sign since ima's diagnosis. This is the first. Thank you for seeing it. I think he's sending you the message so that you know he's with you now and in Israel. His approval is his sign. He loves you and all of us. He's wishing you a safe trip.

The V reminded me later during the flight of how I'd run my hands through my father's plump ones making this exact shape between the fingers. I find it hard to remember pieces of my childhood and I'm not sure why. Perhaps avoidance to not allow more pain. But this V reminded me of those strokes and he would then close up his hand into mine. 

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During our three weeks in New Jersey I shared with my mom and sisters the guilt I felt moving to Israel when my father was very against it. All of us, after studying a year in Israel wanted to stay, only to be told that we'd have to come back and finish college. If we were to find spouses interested in moving to Israel, that would be a different story. And three or so years ago, I was in my parents house when my father suddenly asked "are you still thinking of that crazy aliyah plan?" 

I apologized to my mother for splitting apart the family. She told me she isn't just גאה by our move but that it gives her much אושר. And funny thing, when we arrived to Israel, bnot sheirut from Sharon brought a sign of two birds with this exact single phrase on it. A popular "in" product, these signs say many things. The word אושר I didn't understand at the time. Now I do. 

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My father was many things. Loveable. A philosopher. And afraid of nuclear bombs. While in Newark Airport I saw a Facebook post of the threat Iran could pose of a drone attack on Israel. 

Great. 

As we passed security I realized I wasn't crying. I wasn't a wreck. When my father suddenly passed away I couldn't breathe. Others had to help me calm down. I can still feel the trauma of it all and experience flashbacks. I remember the shower I took before leaving our house in Sharon and turning so red by water temperature and trying to clean off my skin as though I were flithy.

This time I felt at ease. And I realized it's that feeling of closure. It was bizzare. I had chosen a future, to get back on the plane and live, celebrate life. 

How many experience grief and never fully bounce back? And perhaps you never truly do. 

But I never realized I had that strength. 

That to say goodbye. 

In sickness and in health, till death do us part.