When Purim Falls on Grief
Red nail polish, Jewish joy, and Jewish loss.
We lost my safta three years ago on March 13th.
She lived with me and my family when she passed away. Only two months prior, she had a lengthy stay in the hospital. No one—including her—wanted her home alone afterwards.
Only hours away from boarding my flight home after a work trip to Austin, TX, I got the call, having missed multiple from both of my parents that morning. I had thought nothing of it. Now, every unplanned call from them is a reminder.
I needed an escape that week and ended up at a Purim party dressed as a very low-effort cowgirl. Being with friends helped. An extremely painful memory that I'll always associate with one of my favorite and most joyous Jewish holidays, yet so fitting because she reminds me so much of the laughter and celebration that Purim is all about.
I felt the warmth of my community more than ever that week—my friends sent flowers and sat with me for hours at shiva. We ate corned beef sandwiches from Ben’s Deli, along with dips and Israeli food that my safta certainly would have loved.
This year, the date of her passing falls on Purim. I’m hosting my own Purim party. I unintentionally painted my nails red, and now they remind me of hers.
My own Jewish heroine, Yaffa, was the person I called when I was in trouble or sad. One year, my dad and I fought, so I skipped Thanksgiving and spent the day with her in Long Island. She played Mama by Andrea Bocelli and shared photos of me to her Facebook page. She told me a huge secret.
Safta was so funny. She loved cooking for her family and bringing us together for meals and holidays. She played music at all hours.
She and my mom left for the dentist as I was packing for my flight to Austin. I frantically called them back to hug and kiss my safta goodbye. My mom was thrown off by the urgency. I replay the scene in my head often. We were standing in the doorway of our home and they turned around just for that moment. I don’t know why, but I’m glad I needed it.
I see more and more of my safta in my mom every day. It still doesn’t feel real. We can’t believe how long it’s been without her—not only in this world, but in our home, making peas and lamb and chicken noodle soup.
My mom made her peas and lamb today. We lit the yahrzeit candle.
I hope you think of her when you're at Shabbat Club. She would have been eating, singing, and dancing all night.
-Morgan
