((long) after an August 29, 2012 visit to Beth Israel Cemetery, Woodbridge, New Jersey)
 
There were no weeds. No flowers, either. Never flowers. Only pebbles as precarious as
crown. The rocks below were combed. The grass was luxuriant. (For a moment, I
wanted to roll in it.) Rolling. In another context, meadows. Might still be, for all I know. I
haven’t been back. But still, I was there. So long ago. Am there. Only the sun was
punishing. Garish in glare. I fumbled with prayers. Blessings? Sister knew what to
recite. Where to go. How to be. This wasn’t her first rodeo. And there you are separated
from your father who passed young, too. Even in eternal rest, the genders may not
mingle.

                   אשה יראת ה' צנועה וחסודה
Ishah yir’at H. tsenu`ah va-hasudah
A woman God-fearing, modest, and kind
Yes. Yes. And yes. Who could disagree? Not I.

רציוה ונאמנה לרבים היתה
Retsuyah ve-ne’emanah le-rabim haytah
Sought-after by and loyal to the public
Myself included. When always you believed in me. In us. That I could finish this
assignment on time. That I could participate in the science fair. I didn’t want to stay
away from this place.

                ידיה פעלו להחזקת התורה
Yadeha po`olo le-hahzakat ha-Torah
Her hands worked to strengthen the Torah
That it was okay to not excel at baseball. When did your hands rest from God’s work?
Even in rest, they moved. Twitching, then reaching, for the next task.
 
                          יסוד בתינו ישבה באהלה
Yesod batenu yashvah be-oholah
The foundation of our house was in her tent
Yes, you sat humbly in the tent. Plainly. Like Jacob, ish tam, a “man of
simplicity/innocence/wholeness,” who sat in the tent. Ishah temimah. The tent has walls.
The tent’s flap is easy to open. Strangers are welcome. For, even if you sometimes may
have wished you had a bit more prior notice, when didn’t you welcome the yeshiva
student to your home-cooked meal?

And yes, we have a spare room. A room that was spare. And yes, plain, also. Small but
comfortable. The golden curtains salute the sun. Mornings will find you eager. No matter
the dust from the long and winding freeway, no traveler left your tent weary.
 
זיכתה אחרים להיות לעזרה
Zikhtah aherim li-heyot le-`azarah
She encouraged caused motivated others to be a help
To be for help. She fostered an atmosphere of help. Righteousness rightness shall ye
pursue. To know the power within to be of help. Do good in the world. No scale too
small.

לעולם לא נשכח נשמתה הטהורה
Le-`olam lo nishkah nishmatah ha-tehorah
Her pure soul will never be forgotten
No, it won’t. Not before this monument or elsewhere. Wherever we go, she goes.
Whither thou goest … Yes, Book of Ruth. Book of Ruth/Reyzl.

מסרה נפשה לגדל בניה לתורה.
Masrah nafshah le-gadel baneha le-Torah
She gave her life to raise her children for Torah
Yes, and even if we didn’t and still don’t live up to her sacrifice, she still gave it. Even
with all that was denied her, all that she yearned for but never received, she never
stopped urging, ushering her children to Torah.

I came to battle these words. Those new ancient words. What could they offer? How
could they capture the delicacy of her devotion? The loss that never that never blunted
the love. The magnetism, the loyalty and friendships she inspired. How, even after the
battles, even after the rage, she never lost faith. The anchor.

Instead, I enter them. These enstoned words. Inhabit them. Take them with me.
The wind gales barrel them close. I retain my footing. This glare won’t always be.
The ghosts can slip between the monuments at midnight. Dance even. When the moon
is nearly full. Or when it’s not. Picnics before dawn are a possibility. A necessity. Inquire
at the front office for options.

Engraved on stone. Engraved in memory. Engraved in community. En-graved-on-grave.
The rabbis’ wives’ recount her legend. The rabbis, too. The rabbis could have dictated
the lines into engravement. A consortium assembled in the clouds. A lone rabbi?
Perhaps the angels did. Perhaps God above saw to them … or took up the engraving
quill Himself. Or perhaps the whippoorwills offered them to the wind when the dark and
the quiet weren’t enough? Perhaps the wind? Engraved into wind. Engraved onto the
lost women’s auxiliary cookbook pages. In tsholnts past and present and of all time. So
much engraving, so many places of engravement, and still the squish-squash of this
swamp. Still, this sorrow.