Book Excerpts

The following are two excerpts from the book I recently wrote about my grandfather, Dr. Alvin Cohen, may he rest in peace. The idea for the book was conceived when he received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. Wanting to preserve his memories and life story, I spent many hours interviewing him and rewriting the interviews in story form. Besides for being one of my most favorite people, my grandfather did a tremendous amount for me. Writing his life story and presenting it to him in a professionally typeset and bound book was the first time I could do something for him. The book was completed one week before my grandfather passed away.

Dieting Mania

Spending hours sitting on a chair listening to my psychiatric patients talk, took a toll on my weight. I thought back longingly to the days in the Army when I was too underweight to be drafted into the navy. I meditated for a long time trying to figure out where all the excess weight was coming from. I ate a light breakfast of toast and coffee, almost no lunch, and several portions of whatever was served for dinner. Wandering around the kitchen late one night, a handful of potato chips in one hand, and bottle of beer in the other, I hit upon the solution. It was the late night munching, the handful of this and the handful of that, which was causing the pounds to start climbing and the needle on the scale to start rising.

I rushed into the living room to share my epiphany with Ruth. She was in the living room folding laundry, while she watched her favorite T.V. show. “Ruth, Ruth,” I called out. “I’ve just figured out the secret to my weight gain, and the absolutely perfect way to lose it!”

Ruth looked up with a modicum of interest. “Yeah, what is it?”

I was bursting with enthusiasm. “It’s like this. I realized that it’s the second supper I eat that is causing all the pounds to pile up. So we’re not going to eat dinner at home. Every night we’re going to go to a different restaurant. A restaurant is the ultimate in portion control!”

Ruth’s eyes were already straying back to the T.V. “Whatever you’d like Alvin. Which one do you want to go to tomorrow?”

I was warming up to this plan. “I don’t want to have long arguments each night, about which restaurant we’re going to. Let’s just go to Veterans Highway—that street is lined with restaurants—and just go to them in order.”

It was a few months into my new diet and things were going great. I had dropped a few pounds, because when I came home from the restaurant, there were no seconds of dinner to eat, and as per my request, the cupboards and fridge were bare.

As usual, I parked the car, and Ruth and I walked to the next restaurant in line. But this time things didn’t go according to The Plan. Ruth took one look at the restaurant. “I’m not going into this restaurant,” she said, “it’s filthy.”

I peered inside the window. It was hard to see inside because the glass could use a bit of a wash. She was right. It was a little dirty. But rules were rules.

“We can’t go anywhere else,” I said firmly. “We make an exception tonight, and that will be the end. Every night we’ll have endless arguing about where to go.”

“Alvin, that’s ridiculous,” she said. “This restaurant is dirty. I couldn’t care less about what kind of food we eat each night, as long as it’s clean. I promise you, I’m not going to start arguing each night.”

I stood firm though, and eventually Ruth acquiesced. The food was terrible, the service even worse, and that night Ruth got sick with agonizing stomach pains. That was the end of the Veterans Highway diet.

My next diet was the monotony diet. I figured that if I ate the same food every single night for dinner, I would eventually get sick of it, and eat less and less each night. So for weeks on end, I would eat only tuna fish, hamburgers or gefilta fish. When gefilta fish was the food of choice, I would go to the local store and buy a new jar every few days. As I placed the jar of Manischewitz gefilta fish balls on the counter, the cashier remarked, “It’s funny, we never used to sell much of this gefilta fish. But recently, we have sold so much of it. I guess it’s really gotten popular!” I didn’t bother informing the sweet blonde cashier that the only one buying all this gefilta fish was none other than me.


My last resort at dieting was to pay my kids fifty cents—a princely sum—every time one of them caught me eating after dinner. If I would just avoid the fridge and stay out of the kitchen, I could have saved myself a lot of money. But I had a compulsion that kept on sending me to that fridge again and again. After a few weeks of paying out substantial sums of money, I got smart. I started sneaking into the kitchen when everyone was sleeping and helping myself to the fridge contents. One night I crept out of bed as usual after everyone was asleep and softly padded into the kitchen. Just as my hand was reaching into the pot of cold pasta, suddenly all four of my kids, Jeanie, Diane, Lisa and Larry, jumped out from the corners of the kitchen. “Caught you Dad!” they announced gleefully. “We caught you!” And they stuck out their hands, “fifty cents please.” And that was the end of the Pay-Food diet.

It became a lot easier to just buy my clothes one size bigger.

I’ll Catch You Dad!

I sat in the humid, sultry heat of the New Orleans summer, alone. Around me, young girls and boys and their parents were splashing in the huge pool of my friend. Usually at pool parties I had the company of one of my friends who was almost as terrified of water as I was, but this time, my friend had thrown caution to the winds, and jumped into the water. He kept beckoning to me, trying to induce me to join the fun, but I just shook my head and smiled in refusal. But just then my six year old son called out to me. “Hey Dad,” Larry called out. “This is so much fun! Come in with me.”

I went closer to the pool where Larry was splashing merrily and playing with his friends. “I can’t come in.” I said embarrassed. “I don’t know how to swim.”

“Don’t worry Dad,” Larry said, his deep blue eyes staring intently into mine.
“Just jump in. I’ll catch you!”

I turned away so Larry wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung to my eyes at his heartfelt declaration. Those words penetrated to the depths of my heart.
I never was able to escape the fear that I wasn’t being a good enough father for my son. My son’s words brought all my fears and insecurities to the surface. I wanted my son to be able to depend and rely on me; not for him to assume the role of my protector, touching as it was.

The very next day I went to Tulane University and hired Bob, one of the college students on the swim team, to teach me how to swim. I looked in dread at the huge Olympic sized pool. “Listen,” I told Bob. “I just want to tell you a little bit about why I’m doing this. You see, my father died when I was three and as a result my mother was very overprotective. You can say that I never had a real childhood, she never let me do anything and she made me believe that if I would step foot into the water, I would certainly drown…”

Bob interrupted my nervous monologue. “Doc, you’re not going to learn a thing from talking. Just get into the water!”

It took many weeks to overcome my fear and learn the rudiments of swimming. When I finally swam across the width of the Olympic size pool, I climbed out, triumphant with what I had accomplished. That’s when I suddenly heard the sound of resounding applause. The entire swimming team of Tulane University was clapping and cheering for my achievement. I hadn’t noticed that they had watched my struggle week by week to conquer my fear; now they were expressing sincere admiration.

I celebrated my achievement by building a pool in my backyard. I was very specific with the contractor I hired. The dimensions were unusual and specific- the length of my pool was precisely the size of the width of the Olympic size pool I had learned in.

The many hours I had spent in psychotherapy had made me very aware of why I was stifled and afraid of the world. It was those few words “Just get into the water” that made the biggest impact on me. I learned that action is the essential thing.

Light from the Darkness

Rivka Holtzberg never intended to be a modern-day Jewish heroine. She lived her life simply in Mumbai, India, surmounting incredible daily difficulties to live the life she had chosen as Chabad emissary. Her reward was the satisfaction of one Jew at a time, taking on one mitzvah at a time. For her, that was worth everything she endured. Modest and unassuming, with an ever-present smile lighting up her face, she would have been happy to spend the rest of her life in the sweltering, disorderly India. Instead, her name has become a household word, her example held up by women around the world since she and her husband Gavriel were murdered at their post, when terrorists stormed Nariman House on November 26, leaving their two-year-old son Moshe crying “Ima” at the funeral of both his parents.

The heady smells of turmeric, fenugreek, and cumin, and other less pleasant odors, would assault Rivka Holtzberg as she navigated her way through the narrow winding streets, crammed with tiny jewelry and tailor shops, on her way to the open-air market. She needed to walk carefully, to avoid stepping on the old men and woman lying in the gutter starving, the untethered goats nibbling at piles of garbage, and the cows venerated by the people.

Her pale skin and western dress were out of place among the dark-skinned Indians mostly wearing saris, carrying their purchases on their heads, but being different didn’t faze Rivka. She was here to spread light in the darkness of Mumbai, India, to feed the bodies and souls of the searching Israeli backpackers.

She would stand in the kitchen in her Chabad house, working cheerfully with her small Indian staff as she cleaned and plucked 200 chickens each week and baked hundreds of loaves of bread, preparing fresh breakfast and a full dinner buffet each night for the thirty or forty travelers that might stop by. She would serve 800 meals a week, and refused to accept payment from her guests.

"They were magnets," said Rabbi Yosef Chaim Kantor, the Chabad shaliach in Bangkok, Thailand. "When you were with them, you felt like you were in a different time and space. That is why people loved coming to be with them. Their home was an oasis in Mumbai."

Rivka spent a great deal of her day cooking, related Efraim Nass, a long-time visitor to the Chabad house in Mumbai. But whenever people came to the Chabad house, she would stop whatever she was doing and run to greet them. "What would you like to do first?" she would ask, "Rest, wash up or eat?" If they were shy and demurred, she would simply show them to the computer room, where they could access the internet in a Jewish environment. She would offer to do their laundry and would place a heaping plate of food in front of them. While she showed her guests around, she spoke to them, getting to know them and figuring out how she could best help them. Her guests returned her warmth and confided in her, talking with her late into the night.

She had a quip for everyone. "You're too skinny," she laughingly told one woman. "I can't just make you two eggs. You need to eat at least three." And she went into the kitchen to whip up a fresh batch of scrambled eggs.

Rivka didn’t only take care of the guests who came to her Chabad house. She would bring packages of food to Jewish women in prison and spend time visiting them. If someone called and said they needed food and did not know how to find her Chabad house, she would immediately pack them a box of food, and send it by taxi, no questions asked.

Rivka hosted a minimum of fifty to sixty guests every Shabbos. Many would find their way to their door, having found out about the warm hospitality through word of mouth. But Rivka and Gavriel weren't content with that. Gavriel would make the rounds of all the hotels and hostels frequented by travelers and ask to see the guest book. He would then call the room numbers of all the names that sounded Jewish and invite them for the Shabbos meal.

Gavriel would return home triumphant. "Rivka, we're going to be having seventy guests for Shabbos," he would announce. Rivka would smile broadly at the thought of all the guests, but question her husband about where he had gone, making sure he hadn't left any hotels or hostels out. She was not content unless she was sure that every effort had been made to reach every Jew in Mumbai. Although she could have easily used Gavriel's help, she would encourage him to go out again and bring home even more guests.

The Holtzberg’s Shabbos table was the highlight of the week. Gavriel and Rivka were eager to create a communal feeling among the diverse group of backpackers, businessmen, ex-convicts, diplomats, and diamond dealers. “Gavriel insisted that everyone go around the table and say a few words to the group, giving guests four options: either delivering words of Torah, relating an inspirational story making a commitment to take on a mitzvah, or leading a song,” said Benjamin Holzman, a frequent guest of the Holtzbergs’.

Hillary Lewin, a Yeshiva University graduate who spent five weeks with the Holtzbergs in Mumbai, related that Rivka once told her that there was one holiday where they had no guests. It was just Rivka, Gavriel and Moishie. “I expected her to say how relieved she was not to have guests, but she told me it was, in fact, the only lonely holiday they ever spent in India.”

She also relates that, “On my last Shabbat in India, I slept in Rivka and Gavriel’s home, the fifth floor of the Chabad house. I noticed that their apartment was dilapidated and bare. They had only a sofa, a bookshelf, a bedroom for Moishie, and a bedroom to sleep in. The paint peeled from the walls, and there were hardly any decorations. Yet the guest quarters on the two floors below were decorated exquisitely, with American-style beds, expansive bathrooms, air conditioning (a luxury in India), and marble floors. The juxtaposition of their home to the guest rooms was just another example of what selfless, humble people Rivka and Gavriel were. They were more concerned about the comfort of their guests than their own.”

There were no shortcuts in Mumbai. Rivka could never decide that this week would be a lazy one and cut corners by buying ready-made food. There was nothing ready-made in India. Milk needed to be brought from a farm and boiled, chickens needed to be slaughtered, spices were brought fresh and dried and ground by hand, and flour needed to be sifted before it could be made into homemade bread and cake. These were tasks that Rivka did willingly, day in and day out, with a smile on her face.

"In all the five years that I visited — and I was there often — I never once saw Rivka get angry," related Efraim Nass. "Every bone in her body spoke kindness, and she lived for that purpose. She was giving 24/7, 365 days a year. I think she accomplished far more in her twenty-eight years than many people accomplish in seventy or eighty years."

He remarked that Rivka’s voice seemed to be perpetually hoarse, probably from lack of sleep and overexertion. She was up from early in the morning to late at night, constantly tending to the needs of the people there. Her only relaxation was to speak on the phone to friends and her family in Israel.

Rivka Holtzberg's uncle, Rabbi Yitzchak Dovid Grossman, compared the couple's work to that of our forefather Abraham. "Like him, you built a hospitality center," he said, "not for yourselves, but so that any Jew could enter and find a warm place. How many times have I heard Israelis say they went to India to find themselves, and they found a mother and father — Gavriel and Rivka."

Our modern-day heroine brought light where before there was only darkness. The forces of evil and darkness snuffed out her life, but her good deeds will always be remembered and perpetuated, just as the miracle of Chanukah is never forgotten.

Although Chanukah is associated with the pure light of the gleaming menorah, it was preceded by a darkness that seemed never-ending. Daily, Jews went to their deaths for trying to keep Torah and mitzvos. Women continued to bear children and secretly circumcise them, knowing that if caught, mother and newborn child would be thrown from the city walls. There was Chana's anguished cry to G-d as she stood over the bodies of her seven slain sons. To save the Jewish people, Yehudis, a noble and pure woman, had to put her innocence in dire danger.

Darkness everywhere. Anguish marring the noble faces of the Jewish nation as the angels cried out, "Zu Torah v’zu s’chorah – is this Torah and its reward?" looking at a world that had gone black. Yet, from the depths of the pain and the suffering, the Chanukah lights spread their warmth. The seeming senseless suffering and tragic sacrifices of the Jewish men and woman became shining lights of heroism, lighting up the tapestry of Jewish history with their greatness.

Almost two weeks after the unfathomable tragedy that claimed the life of his parents, Moishie Holtzberg has begun to smile. He is his mother's child, who was able to smile even in midst of dealing with the Tay-Sachs that claimed the life of her oldest son and left another critically ill in a palliative care facility in Israel. Despite everything, she was always able to keep on giving. Moishie’s heart-wrenching cries for his parents still occasionally fill the air, but by smiling and playing, Moishie is unwittingly carrying on his mother's legacy of transcending pain.

Rivka and Gavriel's murders darkened an already bitter exile. But in the past week alone, thousands of lights have begun to twinkle as a result of the darkness. Thousands of women have begun to light Shabbos candles; men, women, and children have taken on extra mitzvos; new Chabad centers have been established in their honor. And of course, the Chabad House in Mumbai is being rebuilt, meals are being served, and minyanim are being held at a different, nearby location in the meantime.

Rivka left family, friends, and a comfortable life to live in Mumbai for one purpose only: to bring the light of Judaism to those who had not yet experienced its warmth. And even with her death, the love and kindness she spread in her lifetime continue to ripple and spread, as thousands are drawn closer to Judaism because of the tragedy. If we find the strength and goodness within ourselves to truly and graciously welcome the next guest who comes into our home, and to fill his or her needs as Rivka did, we honor her in the best way possible, as she would want.

Like the Chanukah lights which came from the intense darkness, the light of Rivka and Gavriel continues to spread.

The Rebbe and the Child

“Mommy, why is that lady over there crying?”

My mother put her finger to her lips. “Shh Nechamie, not so loud. If anyone can help her stop crying, it will be the Rebbe.”

I was glad I was wearing my nicest shabbos dress with the pink flowers and lace. The girl in front of me was wearing a denim skirt that didn’t cover her knees, with clunky purple earrings hanging to her shoulders. I guessed her mother hadn’t told her that she must wear her nicest clothing to the Rebbe. I looked at the hundreds of people standing in a line that took up the whole block, and felt like yelling out, “It’s my birthday. I’m going to be six today!”

It felt like forever, but the line slowly moved forward. As we got closer, Mommy started telling me what to say. “Nechamie, tell the Rebbe that heint is mine yom huledes.” The words sounded strange on my tongue. We never spoke Yiddish at home. “Ma, why can’t I just tell the Rebbe that today is my birthday in English. It’s too hard for me to say.”

“Just try. I’ll practice with you.” She said, patting my hand reassuringly. “Now after you tell the Rebbe that it’s your birthday, he will probably give you a brocho in Yiddish. Even if you don’t understand, just say amein.”

As the line snaked slowly towards 770, I practiced the unfamiliar Yiddish words over and over again, “heint is my yum holedus.” I didn’t want to mess up. As I hopped from one foot to another, I chanted to myself, just say Amein, just say Amein.

Finally we arrived at the big ornate brown door, and walked down a long hallway. “It’s so quiet.” I whispered to my mother.

I craned my neck to look ahead. There was a man videoing everyone who went by and someone snapping pictures with his camera. A big lady with a curly brown shaitel and big green glasses, was quickly pushing people along. I was glad that I was too short for them to reach me. I didn’t want to be pushed.

I stared at the Rebbe as I approached. He had a white square beard. I didn’t know anyone with such a white beard. My father’s beard was black and my grandpa didn’t have a beard. I wondered how the Rebbe could stand so many hours. My feet were already hurting and pinched from the patent leather shoes I was wearing.

I stared at the Rebbe’s face curiously. He must have been very old, but he didn’t have any wrinkles like my grandma had. He had such nice blue eyes. I liked his eyes. Mine were plain and boring brown.

Finally it was my turn. I stood in front of the Rebbe. He handed me a dollar in my right hand, and then he looked straight at me, and listened as I pronounced the words I had practiced so carefully. “Heint is mine yom huledes." The Rebbe bent down, so he could look me in the eye.
“Are you making a party?” he asked in his thick Yiddish accent.

“Amein,” I said, as I looked proudly at my mother for approval. She tried signaling something to me, but I didn’t understand what she wanted.

The Rebbe bent down and repeated the question another two times. “Are you making a party?”

“Amein!” I spoke a little louder this time, thinking that the Rebbe hadn’t heard me.
The Rebbe bent down a little lower.

“Are you making a party? He repeated patiently.
This time I heard the words- “Yes, yes,” I said, happily, pigtails bouncing. “I’m making a big party for all my friends.”

The Rebbe smiled, and handed me another dollar. I smiled back, staring at those wonderful blue eyes, before I was swept away by the big lady wearing the curly shaitel and big green glasses.

Beautifully Me

My wedding day was the first time I looked into the mirror without flinching. “Nechamie, you’re beautiful,” my new husband Pinchas said. I almost believed him. But that night, after the reception, the glamour faded away. I took out the hair pins and the black curls cascading against the shining tiara, fell in haphazard messiness around my narrow face. The beauty melted away in stages, as I washed off each layer of meticulously applied makeup. The smooth clear skin, thick luxuriant eyelashes, gently blushing cheeks, and rich red smile, was torn away. My ordinary face with its bright red spots littering my skin, small deep set brown eyes, scraggly eyebrows and long narrow nose lay exposed.

I turned away from the mirror. I was ugly. I could temporarily hide behind a mask of makeup, pretending that one day I would finally reach a universal standard of beauty. Or I could accept reality and make the best of it. My husband had somehow seen beyond the plainness of my looks into the depths of my soul and I would have to learn to do the same.

Truth be told, I had avoided mirrors since childhood. I wasn’t skinny enough, tall enough, pretty enough. When I went to social events, I would watch all the people standing around, smiles on their beautifully made up faces. Happy couples would stand in all corners of the social hall, joy and love of life radiating from their glowing faces. Only I was alone. Only I was stuck in a body I couldn’t stand, with a face I hated to look at.

Here among the Hassidim where I grew up, the soul received a lot of attention. The body was important only as a setting for the precious diamond of the soul. But the beauty of the soul wasn’t enough for me. Of course I wanted to be respected for intelligence, competence and depth. But I also wanted to be beautiful.

It took an excruciating headache, trip to the emergency room, and anaphylactic allergic reaction to change my worldview.

“You have a urinary tract infection,” the doctor informed me, as I lay prone on the narrow leather table in the emergency room cubicle. “I think that the agonizing headaches you’ve been experiencing, the stiffness in the neck and back, and viral symptoms are all stemming from this infection.”

I sighed with relief. My primary care physician had suspected meningitis and sent me to Beth Israel Hospital for a spinal tap. I could handle an infection though. That was something easily cured.

As the nurse left the room after setting up the flow of antibiotics, she casually added as an afterthought. “Sometimes people have a small reaction to the antibiotics. Just let us know if you do.”

“What kind of reaction?” I asked worriedly.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” she responded. “Just a little itching.”

I leaned back against the hard leather table and tried to get some rest. The steady drip of the antibiotic reassured me. The pain racking my body for the past 36 hours would soon be gone.

“Everything’s going to be ok,” I whispered to Pinchas. He squeezed my hand tightly. “Thank G-d, it’s not meningitis. I was so worried.”

But then I started to feel a strange sensation in my lower lip. It felt dry and acidic. Seconds later it began to swell.

“Pinchas, notice anything different about my lip?” I turned to him anxiously.

“Looks normal to me,” he said. But a minute later, his eyes widened in shock.

“Your face…it’s blowing up…” he said as he ran out of the room to call a doctor.

The doctor quickly shut off the offending medication.

“Guess you’re allergic to Cipro,” he said. “The nurse will give you Benadryl. I’ll be around if you need me.”

As the nurse gave me Benadryl, I suddenly felt something in my throat close. It was if a valve in my throat had suddenly shut. I bolted upright and began coughing violently trying to get air into my throat. Pinchas jumped when he saw me sit up so suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. I tried to tell him but I could not get the words out. I clutched my throat tightly, and the words screamed in my head, “Help me, I can’t breathe!”

Summoned by the nurse, the doctor came running. I was gasping for breath, and my throat was swelling rapidly, completely cutting off oxygen.

“Hold tight,” the doctor said. “Calm down and try to breathe. I’ll give you epinephrine and oxygen.”

I pushed his arm off from mine, kicking and flailing desperately at the doctor, heaving and gasping for breath.

The epinephrine worked almost immediately. My heart started racing and I shook uncontrollably, but with the oxygen mask on, I could breathe tiny small breaths.

When I stumbled into the bathroom an hour later and saw a mirror for the first time, I was stunned. I bore more resemblance to an alien then a human. My lips protruded out several inches, my narrow nose had thickened and my cheeks ballooned out, pushing against my eyes, making them into slits. My face had a vacant, glazed look to it, with discolored patches of red skin on my cheeks and chin. I turned away from the mirror repulsed.

“Oh honey,” the nurse said when she came by, “you look so much better. Your face was completely mottled before and now it looks worlds better.”

. “Thanks,” I smiled wanly, “that makes me feel real good.”

I turned to my husband weeping. “Pinchas, how can you stand to look at me? I look scary and horribly ugly.”

He gazed seriously into my eyes. “Nechamie, I love you just the way you are. So your face got swollen. It is still the beautiful face of the wife that I love.”

Although the doctor reassured me that my face should return to normal within 24 hours, every time I saw a mirror I anxiously peered inside, looking and hoping for a return to normalcy. I felt guilty for being so concerned about my looks when I had just survived a near fatal allergic reaction. But I couldn’t stop myself from caring. I was afraid of looking like a monster forever.

I wanted only one thing. I wanted my own familiar face back. I didn’t want to see a caricature of my face staring back at me. I wanted to see the face that had been mine for the 25 years of my life. I wanted to see the face that was beautiful in the eyes of my husband and adored by my little son.

Slowly the swelling receded. My small sculpted chin appeared first. The fat lip which extended and puffed out diminished to an evenly shaped lip and my face resumed its oval shape with finely protruding cheekbones. My eyes which had been swelled shut, began to resume their natural almond shape, and lost their squinting bleary look.

I stared at myself in wonder. What a nice face, I thought. Even… could it be…pretty? I had never noticed my small delicately shaped lips, because my teeth weren’t perfect. I had seen only the narrowness of my eyes without ever noticing the rich hazel color, and long thick eyelashes. My focus on my flaccid stomach had not allowed me to appreciate my slender build. But now I stared and stared.

The face and body that was mine wasn’t perfect. But it had appeal. For the first time in my life, I was now able to appreciate both diamond and setting.

Moments to Live

“I think…you’d better visit soon, Nechamie”. There is a small tremor in my grandfather’s voice that had never been there before.

“If you wait much longer, I don’t think Grandma will recognize you any more.”

I had known this was coming, but the words swirl around me like a dark cloud enveloping my heart.

“I’m coming.” I manage. “I’ll book the tickets today.”

One week later, I arrive in New Orleans with my two year old son Menachem. I’m desperately afraid that I’m too late. Afraid that the grandmother who loves me and takes so much pride in my accomplishments, will stare at me in non-recognition and ask, “Who are you? What is your name?

I hold my breath as I greet my grandmother with a crushing hug, my heart beating a little slower as she excitedly greets me and calls me by name. She hasn’t forgotten me. Yet.

How is she doing?” I ask my aunt in an undertone several minutes later. My aunt purses her lips. “Not good.”

I glance over to my grandmother, absorbed in the antics of little Menachem.

“What is the name of your charming baby again? she asks in a stage whisper. “You’ll have to excuse me. My mind doesn’t seem to work so well in the morning.” Her voice trails off. “…or in the evening either.”

I almost burst into tears and fling my arms around her, as she opens the door to what’s most on my mind. Instead I hastily change the subject and ask my grandmother if she would like to go for coffee at the local Starbucks.

Once there, Grandma looks around the tastefully decorated coffee shop she has visited countless times in the past.

“How lovely!” she exclaims. “Couches in a coffee shop! I can’t believe I’ve lived here all these years, and I’ve ever been here before.”

“But Grandma, didn’t we come here the last time I visited?

I immediately regret my words as she looks at me, confusion clouding her smoky blue eyes.

“Of course I’ve never been here,” she says defensively. “I would certainly have remembered it, if I came here before.”

It is several minutes later when she repeats that she’s never seen Starbucks before. The words form in my mind, “of course you have,” but by sheer force I manage not to say it aloud. I smile instead.

Back home, I leave my grandmother to her rest and walk with Menachem in the verdant park bordering my grandparents building. I try to imagine life without memories. I can almost see myself many years in the future. Would I want to be corrected if I was losing my memory, or would I want to be humored?

Menachem’s urgent pointing as he strains against his stroller harness drags me from my thoughts. “Look, doggie,’ he points, face alight with excitement. “Yes, doggie” I repeat mechanically, my mind miles away. His repeated exclamations draw my mind back into the park, from the out reaches of thoughts. I don’t remember what I was thinking about- something about memory, identity, about life’s meaning and the soul, but I lost it.

“Mommy, doggie,” he repeats. I look to where his finger is pointing. It’s the same dog.

For a brief moment I try to see the world through his eyes. I try to deliberately forget that I just saw the same dog two minutes ago and attempt to see it as my son did ; an adorable ball of fur, endlessly playing fetch with his owner, but I don’t succeed in shutting off my memory. I see the ducks eagerly scrambling after the small crumbs of bread being thrown by an elderly gentleman, but somehow can’t separate it from the ducks I used to feed with my mother in Prospect Park.

I find myself wondering if there’s really a way to be present in life and in the moment without relinquishing my hold on my past and future.

My grandfather calls me on my way to the airport. “Thank you for coming,” he says simply.
There is a pause as though he is considering whether to say the next words. They come out in a jumbled rush.

“Grandma asked me when you were coming to visit. She said that I promised her that you were going to come and you didn’t show up.”

His voice broke slightly. “She’s already forgotten the visit.”

“I’ll remember, Grandpa,” I whisper through my tear choked voice. “I’ll remember.”

Note: This story is fictitious

(Much thanks to Uncle Larry for his help in shaping this piece)