Numbers and years.

Just a day on a calendar

Once, at Temple Israel, a congregation I used to attend, there was a change in the Yahrzeit (anniversary of a death) protocol. Used to be when the rabbi would read the names of those who had died on previous years during a particular week, the congregation would stand in unison as a sign of respect for those families affected. It was a moment the “extended temple family,” as the rabbi used to called it, shared. We celebrate together. We mourn together. The rabbi would read the deceased’s name and it would rise to the ceiling and hover there, filling the space above and throughout the sanctuary, before slowly descending, evaporating really, as the next voice ascended and took its place. It lasted but a second — the name “Paul Friedman” or any of the names — but it was enough.

In that moment, my son, in a very real sense, was in the house.

One year, though, a number of congregants went to the rabbi and asked that the general congregation be seated during the reading of the names, permitting just those immediate family members of the dead to stand. They, apparently, wanted the moment to themselves.

I thought it was a horrendous idea.

The whole point of faith, to me, of religion was belonging to a community of like-minded people (one would hope anyway), was being a part of generations past, and, in Judaism’s case, specifically, was living as a Jew for those killed over the centuries for simply wanting to. And now we were going to scrap all that so some members could engage in a singular, self-conscious Watch-me-grieve pose?

I bring that up because my son died 11 years ago, February 15, and I am a hypocrite.

With this post, I am, I realize, standing up, calling attention to both myself and my grief.

So I apologize.

Eleven years.

Life goes on.

As cliches go, it’s a pretty good one.There’s nothing mysterious about why. Loved ones die and, while you feel paralyzed for a time, eventually you get hungry, need a shower, want to go to a minor league baseball game and share a bag of expensive peanuts, or, mostly, you realize there are others in your life — children, spouses, friends, even strangers — who need you. And need you whole.

I have written about Paul every Yahrzeit since his death. I want his name out in the universe, hovering, filling whatever space will have him, as silly and selfish as that is. I want the world, even via Facebook, to know that he was.

That he and I were.

I stand once a year — twice, actually — for him. The day he was born. The day he died.

I do it for myself, too.

It helps. It doesn’t help.

He went off of that high board there

When he was five years old

Laughing like a maniac

Shining in the Sun like gold

He was afraid of nothin’ then

He was loved by everyone

I see it clear as I see you

That day there in the sun

I hope he’s warm and I hope he’s dry

And that a stranger’s eye is a friendly eye

And I hope he has someone

Close by his side

And I hope that he’ll come home

Where is my wandering boy tonight?

Where is my wandering boy?

If you see him tell him everything’s alright

Push him toward the light

Where is my wandering boy?