The yahrzeit candles were lined up in a neat little row. We lit then as tradition dictates on Yom Kippur for our parents. It is a stark reminder that for all intense and purposes, both the husband and I are orphans.
You never think of being an orphan as an adult phenomenon. When people hear the word “orphan” it is Oliver Twist as a 9-year-old boy that comes to mind, not Oliver as a grown man making his way in the world. And I was luckier than my husband. He became an orphan some 14 years before I did. He was in his early 40s and I was in my mid 50s. We lost our parents when they, and we, were very young.
It is the Holy Days that remind me of my parents. Of course, I think of them quite a lot throughout the year. But the Days of Awe brings about for me, a special pause. I think about what was, and what will never be again. It is the recognition that no matter how much time you have, in the end, it is never enough. When people you love die, a hole forms in your life, and no — time does not heal all wounds.
Read the entire post HERE.