Did I mention that my mom (hareini kaparat mishkava) died?

Did you never notice that people often preface a statement with "did I tell you," when you and they both know that they didn't tell you. It's a way of kind of clearing one's throat by getting hard stuff out. Two friends come to mind. One used "did I tell you" as a preface to "I had an abortion." Another used it to preface "I cut off all ties with my parents." They might have actually used one of the popular variations such as, "I told you didn't I?" Maybe people don't really know themselves if they told you or not when it comes to really big stuff, there's something so mysterious about major matters.

Someone recently approached me ostensibly to comfort me. The catch is that not long ago this person suffered a loss. Of a child. A mother is always a mother and a child is always a child. My mother and I used to argue about that. She's call me her baby. I'm not comfortable being a baby in any context. On the other hand (the hand that a few weeks ago was hidden behind my back) everyone has their reality. I can't begin to imagine what this friend who lost her child is going through. She said to me that losing a mother is more natural than losing a daughter.

Having a loved one die doesn't feel normal, but it is. A comforter during shiva told me that it is not natural to see ourselves. Our eyes see all around a room except they don't view us sitting in the room. Mirrors play a trick on nature by allowing us to physically view ourselves. We cover mirrors, perhaps, to help force the process of confronting true nature: we can see in almost every direction, we can't see ourselves, close relatives die.

During this process I've come to realize, perhaps more keenly than ever that the yeshiva I work in is my primary community. The kids were amazingly caring and there for me when my mother passed away. The principal and administration were outstanding in their kindness. The faculty, my dear colleagues were there and continue to be there for me. And the parents were fantastic. I hope and trust that my mother saw and continues to see the hundreds of people who came to her funeral and shiva. I think I remembered to say at the funeral that if you like me and you got to know mother you would have loved her. That people were there for me is a tribute to my mom.

The funny - not ha ha - thing is that the kids are now immersed in another world. A kid came up to me after after Mincha (at which I davened from the amud and says Kadish Yatom at) and said jovially, "I like the beard!" Dozens of kids have asked me if I'm excited about tomorrow night's Shiriyah and if I'll be there. A dear friend of mine loves to quote from the end of Mary Poppins. Her talking umbrella complains to Mary that the family will move on with their lives and not recall all she's done for them. Mary responds, "As it should be."

The students work feverishly, decorating the halls for Shiriyah.