a shiva call

"I don't think you need to ring the doorbell. We can just walk in." Gail knows more about paying a shiva call to an orthodox family than I do. 

Cynthia's mother has died. I had never met here. She was over 90 and her mind had been failing for a while, though until recently, her body had been strong. Three of us drive to Sam's, Cynthia's brother's house in New Jersey for the shiva.

The family is sitting on stools lower than normal, to be nearer the earth. It looks like they are at a PTA meeting, forced to sit in chairs that are meant for 6-year olds. I am embarrassed by my juvenile thoughts.

All the mirrors are covered to help mourners focus on their loss rather than themselves; vanity and personal appearance have no place in the grieving process.  Even wearing cosmetics is discouraged. Out of habit, I  take out my lipstick to mindlessly apply it. Fortunately I catch  myself when I see the Press N'Seal covered mirrors. 

The ancient practice of tearing clothing is a tangible expression of grief and anger over the loss of a loved one. When my dad died, my family was given a black ribbon the rabbi ceremoniously cut. Here, in a more orthodox home, the clothing is actually cut. I feel almost disrespectful noticing Cynthia's simple, well-cut dress that actually looks bohemian chic with the tear around the neckline. I know I should not be thinking this.

But the most important aspect of shiva, and the reason why it exists at all, is to create an environment of comfort. Being surrounded by others, and sharing pictures and memories of the deceased, really does help. 

Shiva also involves an overabundance of food. The house is filled with big plates of fruit. Lox. Fish. Bagels. Cream cheese. Salads. Vegetables. And even a big sushi platter. All this food and not a single person is eating. I haven't had anything but coffee; it's noon, and I am starving.

I ask Cynthia about the food. As in, why isn't anyone eating any. It's her understanding that the food is only for the grieving family.

But then I see a man — a non-family member — helping himself to a bagel with lox and cream cheese. I politely point him out. This prompts Cynthia to check with her sister-in-law. The verdict comes back; we are all encouraged to eat.

It is good spending time with Cynthia. We talk about her mom, which leads to a conversation about our own relationships with our parents, and children. Family is always complicated.

Sitting shiva is a beautiful tradition; I know it helped me two years ago, and I'm sure it is helping Cynthia now.