|
December 11, 2009
A reflection on togetherness
Discovering a new relationship fills a void with warmth and light.
RICKI SEGAL
After my divorce in 1995, I moved to Toronto to be near my son Michael and my daughter-in-law Amanda, and to create my own identity as a newly single woman. Chanukah, the eight-day Jewish festival of lights, which had always been a happy occasion before, was now a sad time for me because our family had become broken. I couldn't even light the menorah without tears streaming down my face, as I remembered Chanukahs of the past with my family in the west. My other children, Marshall and Brenlee, were still in Saskatchewan, and I missed them terribly.
But something magical occurred one year, which will change my perception of Chanukah forever.
On the first Sunday morning of December, several years after arriving in Toronto, I received a phone call from the man I was dating. He asked me to visit his mother that day because he was unable to do so. He told me that his mother's health was failing and her condition had begun to deteriorate. I told him I'd be happy to spend some time with her, even though I had never met her.
Walking toward the retirement home, I began to feel apprehensive. My boyfriend had mentioned that his mother could be difficult at times and I was anxious about what might happen.
As soon as I entered the building, I noticed the beautiful Chanukah decorations on the wall and the holiday music that was being piped in. It was the third day of Chanukah and all the residents and their families had been invited to a party. I knocked on the door to this woman's room and a voice said, "Come in."
As I entered, I saw a petite lady sitting in a beautiful wicker chair. In spite of her advanced years, she was still a striking woman. Her freshly coiffured white hair crowned a face featuring clear blue eyes, a finely chiseled nose and a cherub mouth. Around her neck hung two gold chains. A dazzling gold bracelet encircled her wrist. Her hands, neatly folded in her lap, exposed long nails with freshly painted polish. As I observed this lovely lady, I couldn't help feeling a sense of awe at her regal stature on the patio chair.
I introduced myself, explaining that I was her son's girlfriend and that I was here because he was unable to see her that day. With some persuasion, she agreed to accompany me to the Chanukah party that was about to begin in the main dining area.
Surrounded by the Chanukah music and the sounds of Yiddish words, I was suddenly transported to another time and another place: I am a little girl again, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen, hearing her speak to me in Yiddish. I can smell the potato latkes frying on top of the wood stove and see my grandmother's hands in perpetual motion. She is like a magician as she grates the potatoes, mixes the batter and fries the latkes. She wears a large apron around her waist. Her hair is behind her ears and, as she looks at me, she smiles. We chat and she continues to work at the stove. I can see myself in the reflection of the large marble table in the kitchen of my grandparents' farm. In that place and time, I felt loved and treasured.
In the care home's dining room with my boyfriend's mother, the loneliness that I had felt in this big city for so long magically began to dissipate. After five years of being sad at Chanukah and wanting to cry, I wasn't alone anymore. I could now enjoy the holiday, mingle with the residents and enjoy the music. It brought me back to a time that was pleasant in my life.
I spent quite a lot of time, after that day with this regal lady in her care-home suite in Toronto. I enjoyed her company and eventually, she became known to me simply as "Mother." This elegant woman would temporarily fill the gap that was left by the physical distance between me and my own mother in Winnipeg.
Although there have been many wonderful male friends and relatives in my life, my heroes have always been women. In particular, I admired my Baba Lazar, Auntie Grace, Auntie Rhona and my own mother. They were my role models when I was growing up.
With the brokenness and the geographic distance of my own family, Mother reached into all the spots in my life that needed to be filled at that moment. She was my grandmother, my mother, my friend, my aunt and also my daughter, my child.
Henceforth, the flickering of the Chanukah candles will always remind me of Mother and that special day the first time we met. The bond we formed will remain with me the rest of my days.
Ricki Segal is the author of My Zayde and Other Memories of Growing Up Jewish. This article, originally called "A Chanukah Story," is taken from her book. Two dollars of the sale of each book will be donated to the Alzheimer Society of Canada.
^TOP
|
