"He's asking us if he should buy the tie. What should I tell
him?"
My husband, exasperated, holds the phone out to me. Our very-
soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old son is calling from the men's
store in Bnei Brak. It's the third men's store he has visited
today.
"What color is it?" I ask my husband brightly, ignoring the
proffered phone.
"Gold with wavy black diagonal lines, apparently, but there's
a lot more to it than that," he explains patiently, again.
"I hear you. You explained before that it has to fit right;
it has to tie right. But what do I know about it? This is one
of those father-son things."
Getting back to serious negotiations with our son, my husband
sighs. "How much does it cost?"
It's really happening. Tonight our oldest son is a bar
mitzvah.
It's Friday night. The men are at shul. I'm home with
our younger children and the women that have come to our town
to celebrate this milestone with me, to affirm my mothering
of thirteen years.
My mother-in-law, visiting from America, sits in the kitchen
chatting with cousins. My sister-in-law gets acquainted with
my friends, Suri and Rachel, who live in Yerushalayim with
their families.
My eight-year-old niece scampers around the house with my
eleven-year-old daughter, both giggling girlish secrets and
delighting in their shared cousinhood. Both born on Succos,
they have always shared a special bond. They last saw each
other more than four years ago.
We have already davened Lecha Dodi. The Shabbos
candles burn merrily as the preschoolers romp and the
toddlers clamor for cookies, for juice, for a lap and a
story. We're chatting pleasantly but all the women have one
ear attuned to the window. We await my dear boy, the bar
mitzvah bochur, who is the star of the evening. Tonight
he is a man.
Faintly we hear the music winding its way to my home. Its
volume increases. Suddenly the door opens. Half a dozen of my
son's friends from his cheder in Bnei Brak escort him
inside, all the while singing songs of Shabbos and Torah.
My handsome son appears grinning at the doorway, glowing in
his brand new black suit, black hat, and gold tie with wavy
black diagonal lines. My heart leaps up at the heavenly song
the boys are harmonizing. My eyes swim at the sight of my
beautiful baby, all dressed in black. The room fades and I am
searching the clouds.
Searching, searching . . . where is she? It's time; she needs
to be here now! I can't find her! She can't be gone; I need
her here now! "Where's my mother?" I hear my voice call
desperately.
I feel Suri's arms engulf me. I'm back in the kitchen. My
mother-in-law and her cousins are whispering and darting
strange glances in my direction. Rachel says meaningfully,
"She's here. Your mother is here."
She's here. That's nice. But, Mommy, you have gone. I don't
see you. Although you were so young, I accept that you have
gone. But couldn't you have come back just for the bar
mitzvah? Just for one special moment? Just so we could
share one loving look as our beautiful baby is escorted home
to his family on the wings of musical prayer?
Finally, all is quiet. All the men and boys have gone to the
Clevelander Rebbe's tish for a brochoh. My
friends and their young children have retired to their
sleeping quarters at the neighbors'. My daughters remain with
me.
My daughter's friend Temima, is here too. My friend Rachel
brought Temima here with her family for the bar
mitzvah because her younger sister is in the hospital.
The little girl was recently diagnosed with a potentially
fatal kidney disease.
We tidy up the house a little. My daughter moves the flowers
to a safe spot. "Mommy," she inquires wistfully. "How long
will it be until the flowers die?"
Temima, reading on the couch, tenses visibly at the word
"die".
"It's not fair," my daughter complains tiredly. "These are
gorgeous. Why do they have to die?"
No. We're not going there. Not now, with Temima listening
in. I'll change the subject. Maybe bring out a bowl of
popcorn. I'll . . .
"Mommy," she whines. "I'm asking you something."
Temima picks herself up from the couch and silently joins us
in the kitchen. She finds a clean plastic cup, walks towards
the water cooler for a drink. She moves slowly, very slowly.
I avoid her eyes.
I take a deep breath. "Everything dies," I say, looking
straight at my daughter, but my heart beating as one with
Temima's. "If something won't die then it isn't alive. And if
it's alive, it's precious. We appreciate it while we have
it."
My daughter nods and goes to her room to sleep. Temima sits
alone on the couch, sipping her water thoughtfully.
The kiddush after shul is a cacophony of
talking women dressed in beautiful Shabbos outfits, laughing
with me, kissing my cheek, wishing me Mazel Tov. On the men's
side I get glimpses of the kollel avreichim's black
and white attire, mingling with the more casual spring men's
wear worn by the people in our kehillah.
I scan the tables to gauge the rate of food consumption.
People are eating happily. The kollel wives are serving
cholent. There is still plenty of cake out on platters.
Perfect.
Our bar mitzvah bochur stands on a chair to give his
dvar Torah. It's hard to hear from where I am standing
but it looks like the men are amused.
"Do you know the difference between a bar mitzvah and
a wedding?" one woman asks me.
I can think of several differences. I smile my "no" and wait
for the punch line.
"After the wedding, your son won't be going home with
you."
But he will still be my son.
"Wow, I can't imagine that," I offer, slightly jolted.
Suddenly I feel the next few years slipping away. " I mean,
look at him standing right here with us on that chair . . .
"
"When he's a chosson, hopefully he won't need to stand
on a chair," she winks.
Rachel is trying to fit the suitcases into her van. "I'm
worried about Temima. All those presents she sees her sister
getting . . . I'm worried that she'll think that the
situation is really . . . you know . . . bad. I wanted to
get her alone for a minute to tell her . . . " Her voice
trails off uncertainly.
"What?" I ask.
"That's the problem. I don't know what to say."
My anxieties give vent.
"Rachel, if Temima's little sister has such a serious kidney
disease, how do their parents know that their other children
won't develop one?"
Her face registers shock and pain, visible even in the starry
dark.
I press on. "B'ezras Hashem she will recover; the
family will get past this scare. But I researched it a
little, and I learned that the recurrence rate is so high for
this type of problem. When can the parents know that their
daughter will be okay?
Rachel stands tall now, her back to the van. Our haunted eyes
lock.
"She can never know," my friend tells me honestly. "When do
any of us know that our children will be okay? When they
become bar mitzvah?"
We exchange a smirk. She really has to go. It's a long way to
Yerushalayim. But my friend waits for my response.
The faint smell of smoke wafts through the air. Tonight is
Lag Ba'omer. The neighbor's kids' bonfire is getting
underway. Whom am I kidding with my claim of breathing
difficulties and tiredness preventing me from attending? I
face reality. I'm paralyzed by the thought of watching my
children playing with fire.
I admit the truth. "We can never know if our children will be
okay. We are mothers and fathers forever."
"Mommy, help! Get this crazy tie off me already! It's choking
me!"
I try. I try to loosen my son's constraints, lovingly and
sympathetically. "You did a great job today, kid," I
compliment him playfully.
"Kid?" Unsuccessfully, he attempts a sophisticated lift of
the eyebrows. He deepens his voice theatrically. "Today I am
a man!"
You are, my dear son, one moonrise more of a man. As I am
today a sunset's worth more of a woman.
We learn. We grow . . . we can't help it. Life is a perfect
process.
My son sighs shortly with relief. With a definitive display
of overload, he tosses the tie on the couch and without a
backward glance, races the clock, runs breathlessly down the
block, towards the safety of the children's bonfire.
