Monkey Business

jamie thinks about life

Monday, February 16, 10:00 a.m.

One shovel of earth. Two.

The rabbi is saying the mourners’ prayer, and my mother is tightly holding onto my father.

My bubbe died at eleven-forty Saturday night. I was downstairs getting my mother a hot chocolate. Bubbe was sleeping. I came back to the room and found chaos-my mother was wailing, my sisters and niece had shown up and they were also crying, and the doctor was trying to calm everyone down. I was drowning in both panic and relief. Relief that she is no longer afraid.

No more fear. Now she’s in a box, buried next to my grandfather, whose headstone reads, Abraham Rosinsky, 1912-1990. Summary of their lives: they married in Warsaw in 1937, survived the camps, met up again in 1946, emigrated to America in 1948, had two kids, my mother and my uncle, had seven grandkids and are survived by six of them.

It comes down to that, a summary.

Is she with my grandfather now? I don’t believe in an afterlife, but what do I know? Did my bubbe believe in one? Maybe she did. Maybe she wasn’t afraid to die. I wish I had asked her.

How do you ask someone who is about to die if she’s afraid?

If I had really wanted to know, I would have asked.

I glance around at the clusters of gravestones. Two rows over, a tombstone says Nathan Mandel, 1975-1992. Poor Nathan Mandel. How did he die at seventeen? What happened to ill-fated Nathan Mandel? Leukemia? Car accident? Drug overdose?

The sun is shining directly on my head, burning my scalp. The bright weather makes the cemetery seem almost obscene. My mother grips my hand tighter.

My bubbe’s death is sad, but I wouldn’t call it a tragedy. She had a full life. Nathan Mandel, that was a tragedy.

But why is longevity important when we’re all going to die, anyway? Is the purpose of life merely life? What about courage and integrity? What about loving and being loved?

I feel a rush of panic. Life is short, and I don’t want to waste it. I want to make sure that every day is filled with things that make me and others happy.

Layla. Why haven’t I told her how I felt about her?

When I called the dorm earlier today, wanting to hear her voice, I got her machine: “Hi! This is Layla. I’m in New York for the weekend. You can call me on my cell at 212-555-6782 or leave a message. And happy Valentine’s Day!”

She was probably in New York for another interview. Good for her! I smiled at her chirpiness, then hung up before saying anything. I didn’t know what to say. I debated calling her in New York, but decided against it. What would I say to her? Standing here in the hot sunlight, looking at the coffin and the gravestones, I know what I want to tell her, but it’s the sort of thing that should be said in person, not over the phone.

I want to tell her I love her.