So, our parents are moving out of our childhood home as we write. As adults, we’ve tended to be wandering Jews, going wherever work or school takes us or wherever the VW happens to break down. We’ve learned that home exists in our hearts, our relationships, in nature, and yes, in the synagogue. We heave a sad sigh as our parents move to a highfalutin’ Scottsdale townhouse, leaving the suburban barn on the golf course with only echoes of our noisy, cat-fur-filled childhoods. But we know that melancholic burn is only the acknowledgement that life goes on, another year begins; we get older, our parents do, too. And, besides, Dad doesn’t want to deal with the pool anymore. We’ll always have that last great seder, guys.
The parental unit isn’t the only family who’s gone through changes this year. Our last remaining grandparent, our meshugge maternal bubbe, was moved from assisted-living to full-fledged nursing home after activating her emergency I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up bracelet one too many times. She keeps asking Mom, “So when do I get out of here?” and Mom has to tell her “it’s the end of the line, lady.” We call her when we remember (which should always be more) and even though her place sounds like palace, it probably doesn’t feel like home. We hope we can be more helpful to her from our long-distance location this year.
Life comes to an end, too, for all of us, which we tend to think about a lot this time of year. We’re truly thankful for the youth we have left and we intend to use the hell out of it, if the Lord sees fit to write us and our loved ones in for another year.
Here’s wishing a sincere Yom Kippur to all and well over the fast, if ya are.