Rosh Hashanah was always my favorite holiday. Other kids liked Chanukah, or Pesach. There was never anyone else who liked Rosh Hashanah. I used to relish Rosh Hashanah in Israel. I loved the way everyone would wish me a sweet new year, everywhere I went.
This year, I want to scream.
"Don't you know that Beth is dying?" I want to ask. "Don't you get it? Rosh Hashanah was my favorite holiday, and Beth was such a huge part of that."
But Beth is more than Rosh Hashanah--she's Chanukah and the Bruners famous party, with a pinata and sugar cookies with multi-color frosting to decorate, and chicken to eat and a Chanukah party important enough that I flew my infant son to the US so he could be there, at least once.
Beth is Sukkot, with freezing cold weather, always, but the warmth of her hospitality masking it. She brings out piping hat matzah ball soup, discussing with me the merits of hard vs. soft matzah balls.
She's Pesach, a season of renewal, Beth and Josh perpetual guests at our house. She brings a fruit platter, but instead of being mostly melon, it's full of the good stuff--berries, mango, pineapple.
Beth is in the audience at every play I'm ever in, her snorting laughter telling me she and Josh picked tonight as I wait for my cue.
She's with us on a boat at their cottage, loaning me a sweater, since as we always joked, she was my "real" mom, with matching hair and body types.
She's grinning away at my wedding, even though after a debate of who to ask to give a blessing, I asked other wonderful, close friends, rather than them. She's cooing at my baby boy, giving him a soft blue bunny, complimenting my mothering skills.
Beth is in the air I breathe, the holidays I celebrate, the Chanukiah I light, a gift when I graduated...college? High school? She's solid advice when I spend days in the hospital at the side of a loved one, she's hot tea and a visit, even though she's not feeling so hot these days.
Beth is important enough that when I learn she has advanced cancer, the fact that I don't, in general, cry goes out the window as I spend a solid hour sobbing on the stoop of the building where we've come to visit friends. There is not a week that goes by from then until now without my worrying about her.
Rosh Hashanah will never be the same. Pesach, Sukkot, Chanukah...I will never be the same. I've never known a world without her--I'm sure she came in to it at some point, but I know her as I know my blood relatives, from forever, through traditions and meals and hugs and laughter and most of all, love.
I will miss her more than I have words to say.
