I'm Going Home

It's been a dozen years since I last set foot on the silty ground of my homeland, and my reason for returning home now is an unhappy one. There does come a time when one returns home, be it a physical place or the metaphoric bosom of one's family, for weddings and funerals.

My last homecoming would also have been for a funeral had I not already scheduled a half-day layover there on the way back from Boston (another of my homes) with my then boyfriend so that my Bubi (grandmother for the goyim out there) could meet him. She died a few weeks before then so instead I toured him around my childhood.

The plane flies on and I do not want it to arrive in that I do not want to face the reality of the next few days. We Jews do it right--burial within 72 hours, sitting Shiva for a week in the home, covering the mirrors, and rending the clothes. Mark the time. Mark oneself as a mourner.

Grief is powerful. I've felt it since I heard the news. Felt the shock melt in to the loss, the nevermore of it all. Felt the weight in my chest, my heart. Felt the awkwardness of the words coming out of my mouth as I passed on the news. Felt the strange fatigue as the timeless hours rolled on waiting to bury my dead.

My brother Tom will be buried in the same silty Minnesota earth (for whatever the geographical construct is worth) as my Bubi and Zadi (grandfather for the goyim), and my dad. My mother was cremated with some of her ashes being buried with my dad, some being scattered at Como Lake, and the rest on Mount Rainier, so that I can see where she is (some days at least) in my current homeland.

Written on a plane Monday, August 22, 2011