It is four a.m. on a Wednesday morning, the first of August, Mom and I are faintly asleep, we both wake up to the persisting voice of Dad. He is insisting that we must get the day started, leaving absolutely no time to waste.
“But Dad, it is four in the morning, “ I say, “ and mom and I have been up all night long.”
“Jeff, It is still dark out, the sun has not even come up yet,” says Mom.
“So? What’s the big deal?” asks Dad, “we will turn on a light!”
The two of us had to admit that Dad had a point, and once again he had the answer. Dad always had the solution to everything in life; there were always “options” according to him. So, what did Mom and I do? Exactly what Dad suggested, we turned on the lights, started brewing the coffee and began our day.
Recently I have been complaining to Mom about this empty feeling within my heart, an unidentifiable pain that ached me. Initially, I felt it was from a feeling of bereavement. A portion of my heart felt hollow, disconnected, a piece of me had departed. But, yesterday was the first day that the hole was filled. I have come to the conclusion that in fact, it is just the opposite: Instead of loosing something in my heart I am in actuality gaining something.
The empty gap in my heart was a way to make room for an extra piece to enter, a piece of Dad. For Dad is and always will be in my heart. It is like my best friend once said after loosing her father, “Rather than feeling like I died with my Dad, I feel that he’s living with me.” And right now, ironically Dad seems more alive than ever.
One of my absolute favorite pastimes with Dad was speaking about our writings. About a week prior to Dad passing away, and one of our last conversations, he told me that he had this brilliant theme for a speech that he was anticipating to give to Rabbi Kroloff on behalf of his upcoming retirement.
“His voice is in all of us” was the premise for the speech. By this, Dad was implying that sometimes we find one person who makes such an impact in our lives and the lives of so many that wherever we may go, we carry their voice inside of us. This “voice” eventually becomes part of our subconscious. I thought the Rabbi might want to know this, and I am sure that Dad would have wanted him to know. I also feel that I can apply the exact theme in respect to the way in which I feel about Dad, as I am sure so many others did, too. Dad’s heart is in my heart, his voice in my voice and even his cheeks are on my cheeks.
During his last few weeks, Dad taught me the difference between being alive and living. To be alive is a predestined natural condition, but to live is a verb, it is a choice. My father was not dying of Cancer, rather Dad was living with Cancer and I loved him for that.
It is like Morrie Schwartz says in the book, “Tuesdays with Morrie, “Death ends a life not a relationship.” My relationship with my father continues to grow forever! Amen.
Annika Davis
Jeff was another classmate who left us too early, and very unfairly. I remember Jeff from early days in grammar school, when both of us played in the orchestra & marching bands. His daughter's letter (on the website) was touching - and very genuine. He always had a sunny disposition.
I recall one day when we came across one another walking in opposite directions along Lyons or Chancellor avenues. There was some issue I brought up involving other parties, who had a difference of opinion about some minor matter. I vaguely remember questioning someone's opinion or actions. What we discussed really doesn't matter. What I recall to this day was his quick and cheerful response. With a broad smile, he stated, simply, and matter of factly, "That's what makes horse races." I never remember him uttering an angry word to anyone. He is missed.
Joe Scherzer
