NAOMI BAR-YAM — Sister-in-Law
Aureet,
We miss you so.
Shlomiya [Aureet's niece, age 8] talks of you, dreams of you, remembers you often.
Like the rest of us, she is still trying to understand.
You and Shlomiya had a special relationship; you gave Shlomiya her love for animals, patiently teaching her how to groom and feed and walk Flame.
Shlomiya always smiles with pride when people talk of the ways in which she resembles you; your beautiful skin, the texture of your hair, your love of animals, your wonderful, expressive art.
If only Yavni [nephew, age 6] had gotten to know you better.
Maayan [nephew, age 3] is too young to remember you at all.
We will pass on to them the legacy of our memories and our love.
For me, what is so hard, what I miss perhaps the most, is the loss of our future relationship.
I have known you for many years, but the miles and our schedules often separated us, making it difficult to know one another well.
When we needed the family in Israel, you were there, a calm and steady presence
with clear information and wise advice,
with humor and perspective where we thought there was none.
It was there that you and I began to establish our own relationship - just you and me.
Then, again, the miles separated us.
When we visited from Israel and stayed with you for a time, our relationship again began to blossom. We were in the same place, there were opportunities to talk, trade perspectives, share dreams. You dreamed of family, a husband and children. I remember, once, you were chatting on the phone, holding Maayan, then about 3 months old, smiling at him as you paced the living room with the phone at your ear. In the middle of your conversation, Maayan gurgled and you said, "I am holding my little nephew here. I want one. I want a baby." You would have been such a wonderful mother.
I miss the full blossoming of our relationship.
I miss being a mother with you, sharing the joys, frustrations, challenges of motherhood, the trips to the playground, stories of our children's adventures and accomplishments, questions and concerns all mothers have about our children, about ourselves as people, as women and as mothers.
Aureet, I miss you.
Excerpts from "The Empty Drawer"
Based on conversations in January 1991 between Naomi (Ima-Mother), Shlomiya - 51/2 years old - and Yavni - almost 4 years old - (Yaneer and Naomi's children). Saba and Savta are Grandpa and Grandma in Hebrew.
(In Israel)
Ima's voice was quiet and sad. "Do you remember this morning Aba called from Boston to tell us that Aureet was in an accident and she was in the hospital? Aureet died today."
Aureet and Shlomiya, 1987
For a moment Shlomiya and Yavni and Ima sat together quietly.
"Do you know what it means that Aureet died?" Ima asked.
Shlomiya thought for a moment and answered, "Aba told me that dying means that you stop growing."
"That's right, honey. It also means that we won't ever see Aureet again." Ima said.
"Never?" Shlomiya asked.
"Never." Ima answered.
Thinking about that made Shlomiya very sad. Shlomiya crawled onto Ima's lap and started to cry. She loved Aureet very much.
"We won't ever see her again. But Ima, it was too soon for her." Shlomiya said between her tears.
"You're right Shlomiya. Most of the time we think of people dying when they are old."
Three year old Yavni cuddled up next to Ima holding his rabbit doll tight. "Aureet died today. We won't ever see her again. I'll miss her."
"We will all miss her, Yavni" said Ima and she hugged Shlomiya and Yavni. Ima was crying too.
Shlomiya asked, "Does all of you die? There isn't anything left?"
Ima said, "There is a part of us that goes on living. Have you ever heard the word nefesh or neshama or soul?
