I wrote this post two years ago.
Today is my father’s 31st yahrtzeit.
If you might do a mitzvah in his memory (Moshe ben Aryeh Leibish), it would be truly a kindness.


Last night I dreamed of my father. He’s been gone for 29 years so I
rarely dream of him anymore. It’s not his yahrtzeit. Not his birthday.
Anniversary. I wasn’t even really thinking about him much.

In my dream he was 30. Young, thin, and happy. We were in the little 2×4
summer bungalow that my family used to rent each summer in Monticello, NY.
He was in the kitchen making me breakfast. We didn’t even say anything to
each other. But there we were, connected. Ever read the play, “Our Town”?
That’s how it was. Except I was in it, not reading it.

When I woke up, I knew that there had been a connection between my dad and
me. I don’t know the nature of this connection. Was it spiritual?
Emotional? Psychological? Wishful thinking? But it was there,
nevertheless. It was real.
If he would still be alive today, he wouldn’t be young. Probably not
thin. Maybe even not happy. I look around at people my age with dads.
Relationships are complicated. But in my world, my dad will always be
frozen at 30. Young, thin, and happy. Taking care of me. In that little
one-story cocoon in Monticello, NY.