Page 19 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 3

I Remember Papa

I still remember, and miss, my father: William Shapiro. He
died in 1997. When I light a candle in remembrance on the
anniversary of his death, often my sorrow is compounded
by another feeling: specifically, missing people whom I love,
people who are far away, people who are alive and in my
life but, still, not physically here with me to hug me, or pass
me tissues, or witness how bereft I feel as the candle for my
father burns.
One year when I lit the candle for my father, my husband
was in another country, my oldest son was on the other side
of this country, and my youngest son was in California but
in another city hundreds of miles away. Everyone was living
their busy lives, and I was busy too, but yearning to be—in
that precise moment—remembered. I gazed at the tiny flame,
and wished my family were here to eat dinner with me and
reminisce about my beloved father, even though they didn’t
know him the way I knew him. And I reflect: one day I will
be gone. I hope that those who love me will light a candle
as generations of Jews have done throughout time. But what
will they remember?
I hope that they remember my thick, full sandwiches,
which I packed in waxed paper for 20 years—always in the
morning so that the food would be fresh. I hope they remem-
ber my oatmeal, warm and creamy and full of golden raisins
and brown sugar just the way my mother made it, with milk
added for calcium. I hope they remember my cheerful “good
morning” even when I slept poorly or felt like shit or dreaded