This is the start of her eulogy

They say mazal tov at the funerals and worse,  
at the burials. 

Did you know that Jews do the digging themselves? 
Even when they are in Edison, and there’s snow on the ground and 
the earth is thick and sticky clay. 
Even when they are descendants of Aaron, 
fifty-one year-old men who’ve never been to cemeteries. 

They say sorry for your loss at the engagement parties and worse, 
at the weddings. 

Did you know that Jews remember the dead under the chuppah? 
Even on the most joyous day of their lives, when they are thinking  
only of the future. 
Even when their parents are not in mourning, and  
the prayer shawls of their grandfathers do not hang over their heads. 

Grandma Rose used to go through her address book periodically, 
once she was old and bitter 
(or, perhaps she was always bitter). 
Dead, she would say, and cross out a person’s name, their information. 
Dead, dead, dead! 

Grandma Rhoda said, at her own funeral, if you can believe it: 
You see, Mitchell? It doesn’t matter what you do, or who you are, or where you go. 
Everyone ends up in the ground, with dirt being thrown on them. 

And my father cut his shovel into the frozen mound and 
flung mud upon his mother like a dutiful son. 
He always was her favorite. 

The rabbi said: Don’t forget, 
this is not your childhood friend, your sister, 
your daughter, your mother, 
the love of your life. 
This is just  
a Shell. 

It was never highlighted, Daniella’s sister said. 
(This is the start of her eulogy.) 
So blonde, so sweet, so goddamned shiny. 
She was a myth when she was alive, too. 

Never, God forbid, was her hair frizzy from the rain like the rest of ours 
when she walked into morning prayers. 
Never did the two of us get into trouble for sharing our answers  
on a homework assignment for Torah class.  
Never did she dump extra food on my plate when her babysitter wasn’t looking 
so that she could get dessert. 

Sahava, she would say, pronouncing my name in one lisped, husky breath. 
Even when I had corrected her a million times. 
She could not hear the difference. 

You’re my little mommy, she would say.  
Even though she never thought Grandma Goldie was my namesake anyway.  
She could hear the difference. 

Now she is a Shell, and all I can do is 
squeeze her memory like a sour lemon. 
She has been a shell for a long time. 

 My mother’s friend Ellen said: 
When God is handing out different traits, 
don’t choose smarts or beauty or fame. 
Choose luck. 

Luck means you won’t die 
playing tennis on the Fourth of July or 
whispering the Shema on a bus in a foreign country or 
sleeping in a car in your homeland or 
biking to the hospital to save lives. 

Luck means you will die 
in a nursing home,  
slowly. 

Grandpa Sam said: 
God is getting senile. 

They say may she rest in peace to her son and worse, 
to her father. 

Did you know that Jews recite eleven months of Kaddish for their parents and only one for their children? 
Even when they have not prayed three times a day since they were forced to  
in elementary school. 
Even when their baby never got to have children of her own, and 
there is no one to lift her soul to heaven. 

They say may you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem at the shiva house and worse, 
at the synagogue. 

Did you know that Jews must wait for the mourner to speak first? 
Even when the mourner is as young and composed as you remember, and 
beautiful. 
Even when she looks just like her daughter, only she is  
showing the first signs of wrinkles and her blonde hair is 
highlighted.

From the author: My poem considers Jewish grief through a collage of funny and haunting images of people I've loved and lost.

Zahava Presser Michaelson is a medical student and mom who sometimes wishes she had more time to paint. Previously, she studied Literature and Visual Arts. Zahava was born and raised in NYC, where she still lives with her family.