Day-to-day life does a fairly good job of covering up the bigger picture, with its mundane moments building upon each other to create a thick tapestry of denial, or something like it.
It’s the curse that most mothers and daughters know well: how to take an overwhelming connection and employ it, misguidedly, as a weapon.
Every time a family event looms on the horizon, I’m forced into mental gymnastics: how to enjoy myself without pushing too many buttons of self-loathing.
As time has passed, so has my willingness to confront what’s been taken from us.
Every Hebrew letter feels a bit of a torment—a reminder not just of the bad Jew I am but also the good Jew he so badly wanted to be.
I’ve returned to a few old haunts in the last 48 hours and they’ve reminded me that the past (despite its bad rap) can pull you forward if you give it more than a sliver of chance.
The hardest part of grieving is having nothing to say.
I’m afraid that going home will make his absence that much stronger, more biting than it’s already been. I’m afraid that seeing this same sadness on hundreds of faces, rather than five, will make it hurt that much more.
On the two year anniversary of this blog I can think only of my amazing dad, Craig Schiffer, who died unexpectedly this past Monday.