Mom, we’re moving on

It’s amazing what we’ve uncovered these past few weeks as we chip away at the life you shared with Dad for 55 years. Renee and I have spent countless Fridays sorting childhood photos into three neat piles, as if we didn’t grow up in the same close-knit family of five. As if we didn’t share the same memories of holidays in Durban, fishing on the vlei, midnight feasts, and beachfront bike rides.

Living in different parts of the world created separate memories and experiences for us three. Then your death pulled us back together, reminiscent of when we all lived under the same roof in Cape Town. I know you’d be proud of how close we became in your last month, creating our own little world that orbited like a planet around the Room in Which You Died. In this new world, we were the parents and you were the child. We learned to pronounce the names of chemicals that would eventually end your life. We developed humor so dark that the devil would be disgusted. We watched Dad orbit in his own world, shattered, desolate, crushed with grief. We became his parents too.

From the Room in Which You Died, you ruled like the sun. You gave orders about tablecloths for shiva calls, made us give away your clothes before you left so Dad wouldn’t have to deal with them, and even directed me to the freezer to decide what to throw out (“Dad won’t eat kneidel soup after I’m gone”).

You took your last breath a week after our whole world went mad. Our private grief was overshadowed 1,200 times over as Israel mourned the victims of the October massacre. My memories are of feelings that ricocheted off the wall of my soul from grief (“I don’t have a mother anymore”) and guilt (“She lived until 80; what right do I have to cry when some people saw their babies shot in front of their eyes?”).

But Mom, you’d be so proud of Dad. As we sleepwalked through the grief and disbelief of those first few months, we watched him emerge with a new presence and inner strength that brought us true joy. That strength led him to leave the apartment you called home for over a decade and start anew.

Packing up your shared life has been a healing journey. We’ve confronted ghosts, unraveled family mysteries, laughed hysterically at shared memories, and cried so many tears that at times it felt like my soul was being wrung out and hung to dry.

You’d love that the grandchildren have claimed most of the furniture. M and S took the round table to their kibbutz yesterday, the same one we sat around for Friday night kiddush. N and A, on miluim since October 7, took the clothes dryer to their base so they could have dry uniforms. A and Y will start their lives as a married couple with your beautiful white bedframe.

They’ve all taken photographs and mementos to remember you by. They were so blessed to have such an incredible Granny to guide them into adulthood. They all carry a part of you in their hearts and homes

Credit: Gilad Kingsley

Yesterday, Dad made the official move to the new apartment. You’d have a love-hate relationship with his new floors. They’re not the ugly spotted ones you despised, but the dirt on the new white tiles would have you turning in your grave. Still, it’s bright and modern, and it might feel like home one day. We’ve placed your candlesticks on the sideboard, and Dad even allowed us to display a photo of you next to them—for the first time in 11 months.

I reminded Dad to take the Shalom Family sign from the old door and move it to the new apartment. “There’s not much of a family moving into the place,” he commented dryly.

Credit T. Michaelian

But Mom, that’s where he’s wrong. He may be moving in as a single person, but you’re moving in too. Your personality was truly larger-than-life, living on nearly a year after you left us. You were the sun that held us all in orbit, in life and in death. We used to joke that you were born on the moon, but the joke was on us. We were your moons. In life, you held us together as a family, and in memory, you still do. The Shalom family, with all its new additions, will move into your new home.

You’re still with us, Mom. And maybe, over time, the laughter will outweigh the tears as we hold onto the warmth of your memory in this new chapter. We’re moving on, but we’re taking you with us.