A Sunday Funeral

The rain, heavy at times, splashed against the windows at the Jewish Center in East Hampton yesterday afternoon, as the service began for the funeral of an old friend who died of Parkinson's. I had stopped by his shiva in Florida and asked his widow if I could say a few words at the burial service. Despite the dark weather and sad circumstances, the warm and witty eulogies from the various speakers—college friends, a business partner, a brother—all lightened the mood. I was the closer and decided to honor the widow for her steadfast support over the years, especially the last, especially difficult ones. I wanted to recognize the cadre of widows and widowers who are always there, standing by. They are the caretakers, often for years, and then they are left alone. Many of us will find ourselves in that situation. Once the children and grandchildren leave, it is the survivor who must bear the loneliness and the memories of a lost loved one. I became a widower in 2017 and immersed myself in work, art classes, and writing. Creative expression was especially therapeutic. Getting into “the zone,” when deeply focused on a project, is, I believe, when a form of healing takes place. Involving myself in classes and other activities allowed space for something besides grief to occupy my thoughts. I connected with others with shared interests and found healing there, too. Though I think of my late wife, Judie, often, loneliness is no longer a constant companion.