Selma, our elderly family friend, has passed away. I understand she had an easy and peaceful death.
Selma was my mother's best friend, and a dear member of my chosen family. She has been there for my mother and I through some very tough times. She was a gentle, steadfast person with a big heart. Her beloved husband, also someone I loved, died a few years ago. She has two adult daughters.
I'm going to the funeral tomorrow, making the round-trip in one day. I'm driving to Buffalo and leaving the car at the airport. Thank goodness for JetBlue.
I won't post tomorrow, and probably not Friday, either. Before I go, I want to share a memory of my friend Selma.
For the Jewish high holidays in 2001, we were gathered at my mother's home. This was immediately after 9/11. My mother lives on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, opposite New York City; her apartment faces the skyline. Standing on her balcony, you could see the giant cloud of dust and smoke hanging over lower Manhattan. The wind still smelled of heartbreak.
We were talking quietly, relating various thoughts and memories of The Day. Selma was a tiny woman, very thin, with a small voice, made more frail from Parkinson's disease. So imagine this tiny, quavering voice, speaking very clearly and precisely, and her thin hands miming the action. "Every time I see George Bush on TV," said Selma, "I just want to wring his neck."
See you on Saturday.