Shloshim

Today marks the shloshim of my mother. What's a girl to do...? 

Well, approximately a week before I remembered my mom's love for Jerusalem. She would walk around, even on the warmest day and one time told me how she ordered soup (in the summer) and everyone thought she was crazy. 

Taking a day off to commemorate her love of the Holy City made sense and we haven't been to the kotel since the first week of our aliyah in July.

I woke up with a headache in the morning. Taking all three kids to school, we then drove to the cemetery where I have not one but two parents. I started to cry. Heavily. Immediately getting up from shiva and getting right back into work was a necessity, putting my deep feelings aside as if under a pillow. Reclaiming routine was the only option to move forward. 

We spent an hour at the cemetery in relative silence. 

My mother liked to learn. I reserved 3 sections of the mishna of Masechet Nidda, put my coat down on the ground beside her grave and learned with her. When I couldn't because it was just too hard, Josh took over. I told my mother how everyone is "thinking of me" and I don't know what else to say...her grave, so fresh in contrast to my father's with a tomb stone. Myself above ground and she below. It was so bizarre. 

Reciting psalm 119 and 1, we then said Kel Male Rachamim. Once that was completed, I looked up and remembered I have not one, but two graves. Leaving the cemetery was almost just as hard as the goodbye after the holidays. 

Such irony. 

We passed an unmarked grave. No name. No stone. Just the bricks placed as a way to mark a frame and the sprouting of weeds. We both wanted to do something but without more information, we were at a loss. 

From there we ventured to see the restored Hurva synagogue and the Kotel. The old city is nothing as I remembered it from 15 years ago. Little memories came back of the narrow streets and how my father would make sure cars wouldn't run us over and my mother would tell him to relax. The line to the kotel was backed up with a chafetz chashud, reminding me of the time my mother sat with us and picked lice out of our hair. 

As we left through Jaffa gate, a musician played in jazz style Frank Sinatra's "I did it my way." 

And I most certainly did. 

Today was the best decision I have made - - in a long time - - to put myself first, step up and think only about what matters.

Love from Jerusalem, Ima.

Ps - the soup was free.