Kaddish for Miriam
Her name was Miriam.
Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world which He has created according to His will. May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and say, Amen.
I was twelve when we met, sullen and disinterested in this tiny woman with the frail voice. She was taller than I was, when we met, but not by much. They made me sing, and when she heard me, we bonded over music. “She has got a Voice” she told her son, my step-father. “God gave her a Voice.” When I asked her what she wanted to be called, she smiled and said, “Call me Bubbie; it means grandmother.”
My own grandmother, my mother’s mother, the Italian woman with the Jewish name (Esther), was simply Grandma, so this worked out well. No one should have to share their identity. Grandmother, Grandma, Bubbie, they are identities as well as titles.
May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.
When she read that playing the piano would help keep her arthritic fingers limber, she went out and bought one, doing so on a weekend when my parents were away, and we were at the mall together. She tested several. They delivered the one with the light, and the ornate scroll for the music rack.
Later, when it was in her apartment, she pulled out a box of ancient sheet music, tattered and torn, and showed me her favorite song, a merry melody, evocative of belly dancers and incense. “Song of the Gypsies” or some such.
Her wrinkled fingers came to life, dancing over the keys, and the life brought light to her dark eyes, and a grin to her face. In music, she was completely happy. We shared that.
Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen.
She was feisty and fun. She may have had an old woman’s body, daily shrinking smaller, but she had the soul of an adventurer. She once walked two miles to a podiatrist because her feet hurt, and at a party I held when I was sixteen, fed up with fighting a bunch of teenagers for access to the fondue pot, she quietly walked into the kitchen, took a spoon, and ate the chocolate from the saucepan we’d use for the initial melting.
She would never buy sweets for herself, but if we brought ice cream when we visited, she would offer dishes and spoons. If we left, and came back the next day, the leftovers (even if that amounted to half a gallon) would be gone. “It was there,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye. “I had to make sure it didn’t go to waste.”
May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.
She was, at times, the quintessential Jewish grandmother. If you offered her a snack she’d say, “If you make, I eat,” with a shrug and a sigh. If you made her laugh too hard, she’d hold herself and chortle, “Oh! Oh! I’m gonna make!” Rather irreverently, when I go to Mass on Sundays, I hear the echo of her voice during the breaking of the bread – “Take, eat.” – the cadence, the phrasing – both are hers.
He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.
Her last few months were less than restful – a pacemaker that kept her alive also caused her physical distress, cancer was infecting her entire body, and I’ve heard she couldn’t eat, and was always tired. She was nearly ninety-five, but if you’d have asked her, she’d have told you she’d only been old for about five years.
Her name was Miriam.
May she rest in peace.
And say, Amen.