Who shall live…

And who shall die?
The ancient words ran through my mind as a text flashed on my screen. It was from a cousin with word that his beloved mom had passed away just before Rosh Hashanah.

Ninety seven years old, my aunt, one of my mother’s six siblings, and the youngest and last of the sisters, had been slowly moving towards the end of her days.

Earlier that week, when I called to say hello, her devoted caregiver answered and shared, in her lilting island accent, that Ritah, as she lovingly called my aunt, with emphasis on the final a, was gradually slipping away. She was tired, resting, not up to a phone call that morning.

It was not a surprise. But still.

My aunt had suffered a stroke a dozen or so years before, her speech limited, her mobility slowed, her strength diminished.
Still she was an abiding spirit, a graceful presence in the way she carried herself, in the way she engaged with the world, quietly, thoughtfully.

She listened intently, smiled broadly, gazed directly, the light in her eyes conveying unbounded warmth and affection.

She was fiercely loyal to family, devoted to her husband, my Uncle Stanley z”l, he with the walrus mustache and funny faces that elicited raucous giggles from his nieces and nephews, to her two sons, her grandchildren and to those of us lucky enough to be within her circle of family and friends.

An avid walker, she covered miles daily often with others tagging along and struggling to keep up, with neighbors, who became more than acquaintances, who even as she aged, checked up on her, as she had checked in with them.

She was proudly Jewish, proudly Sephardic, still speaking the ancient Spanish she learned at home with her siblings.

And she was as generous with her time and energy as with her affection, at work, at home, or volunteering for countless projects, at the temple or in the larger community, organizing Purim carnivals or the annual 4th of July festivities.

All this, until a stroke stopped her in mid step but her strength and determination, her keen interest and engagement in the world – she read the newspaper every morning – remained.

I would call now and then to catch up, regaling her with family news hoping that it would elicit a gentle laugh. Visits were less often, but precious time, bringing soft, fuzzy socks, or a bright scarf, a blooming plant, then just sitting and chatting, feeling the warmth of her hand in mine.

But time is fleeting.

And so, it was, just as the holidays arrived, Aunt Rita left us.

And I was left with my memories and reflections, especially poignant, as we begin a new year, and ask to be given another.

As we confront the fragility of life, the evanescence of time, the randomness of the world.

As we encounter the question, in the ancient words of the Un Taneh Tokef, who shall live, and who shall die.

And the when and how, unknown.

And I think about what gives a life meaning, what gives a life purpose, what we are meant to do, to be.

And what we leave behind.

And I think about memory and legacy, about blessing, and what it means for a memory to be a blessing.

To be blessed with the enduring presence of those who show us how to walk in this world and seek to follow.

And so it is, as I wished friends good, sweet days to come, as I wished that they be inscribed in the book of life for another year, as Sukkot came, I thought about my aunt.

And what it means to be a blessing.
And may her memory be blessed.