Eli (Saying Goodbye)
Photo by Rainhard Wiesinger on Unsplash
We got the news about a week ago. Eli was dying. No longer taking food or liquids, her body could hold out for a few hours, days at most, and then she’d be gone.
When my sons were in grade school, their headmaster called to enlist my help. A family from San Diego was moving to Seattle and considering the school for their children. We were newcomers to Seattle and seemed to be settling in happily. The headmaster hoped that sharing our experience would result in these parents enrolling two more children, the eldest of their three kids. The twenty-five-year friendship that resulted long outlasted that headmaster’s tenure, enduring through our children’s grade school, high school, college, master’s degrees, and the new family’s relocation to Florida. Eli was the matriarch – grandmother to the kids, mother to my then new, dear friend.
Eli lived in Los Angeles, where my girlfriend grew up. When my eldest son was considering college in California, we did a road trip to visit half a dozen schools. Eli welcomed us into her home, providing a base from which to explore Southern California campuses. She was smart and sassy – read voraciously, traveled all over the world, and made friends easily. What impressed me most about Eli was her warm embrace of her children, grandchildren, and their friends. She modeled love without judgment, something I admired but could not seem to achieve easily.
A few years later, our friends relocated to Florida, settling a mere half-hour drive from my parents. Eli followed to Fort Lauderdale. Living so close to my parents allowed us to stay connected. Each time we saw my folks we also visited our friends. Eli and I discussed the books we were reading, dissecting plots and writing styles. My youngest son and our friends’ oldest son talk to each other every week, and vacation together whenever possible, visiting ten countries on four continents so far. In her eighties, Eli joined them on one of their US road trips, passing her love of travel down the generations.
A few months after my father died, my mother passed away. Alone at home, she collapsed, bursting a blood vessel in her nose. From across the country, I learned that she was dead, her house splattered in blood. I needed to make funeral arrangements quickly, but her home needed to be cleaned up and prepared for our imminent arrival and sitting shiva, the seven days of mourning after Jewish burial. I called my girlfriend to ask the biggest favor of my life – could she go to the house, assess the problem, and arrange for crime-scene cleaners to come immediately? She handled everything, including the policeman who gruffly demanded an explanation of who she was and why she was there.
When Eli’s time came, she wished to be buried alongside her beloved, late husband in Los Angeles. It took five days for all the paperwork to be completed, allowing her body to be flown to L.A. Five days of agony for her children, unable to plan a funeral without knowing when Mom would arrive safely in Los Angeles, for burial arrangements to be made, and for sitting shiva to begin. Finally, six days after her death, Eli was going to have a proper burial. There was no question that we would attend. My youngest son and I bought last-minute tickets and flew down to participate in her send-off, and to comfort our friends.
Jewish mourning rituals require swift interment, and then mourning begins. During the shiva, friends and family console the spouse, children, siblings, or parents of the deceased. For the first year and a half of the Covid pandemic, it was impossible to hold a proper funeral or shiva – the risk of infection made gatherings too dangerous. With all the attendees of Eli’s funeral fully vaccinated, family and friends flew in from Israel and all over the US.
Eli’s shiva was held at her granddaughter’s commodious home in a tree-lined suburb of L.A. With a large back yard, and ample tables and chairs, we gathered outdoors under crystal clear skies, sharing meals and stories over the next few days. We ate, we drank, we laughed, told stories, ate, laughed, and drank some more. Eli loved good food, good wine, and a well-told tale. I felt her smiling down on us, an eclectic bunch who were part of her life, and benefitted from her gracious wisdom.
Photo by Linda Rosen