It's hard to let go of those you love. [View All]

Yesterday was such a hard day. Typical of a December day in Chicago, it was cold and blustery at the cemetery, and as my brothers and I carried the plain, polished pine coffin containing my uncle's body to his grave, my mind cast about for something else to think about, to remember--- anything to help ease the crushing grief that lay upon me like a heavy stone slab. And as my mind wandered, scenes from my life--- times I spent with Uncle Ernst--- flooded into my mind...

I remembered the first time I met this giant of a man, all 6'7" of him. It was at my grandmother's house, shortly after I had arrived here, almost twelve years ago. Angry, hurt and grieving, the thing I most remember about him then is what he did not do that day--- he did not force himself on me, nor did he display that artificial bonhomie that people seem to think children such as myself must benefit from. No, instead of that, he took a seat nearby, looked at me and said in Yiddish, "Nu, bubeleh?", while arching an eyebrow. Though I didn't understand the words themselves, I divined their meaning and his intentions--- an offer of friendship. Almost instinctively, I moved closer to him on Gran's divan, and began to talk with him. His silence displayed interest and attention, and his questions were respectful, his answers open and straight-forward, and I warmed to this old man with the strange, thick accent overlying his precise English.

I remembered the day he retired from his practice of medicine, his long, elegant fingers gnarled with arthritis, robbing him of the skilled dexterity that had healed so many over the course of 60 years. I remember those of his colleagues who spoke of his skill in the operating theatre, and those of his patients who spoke of his kindness and patience. And in his face, I saw the grief behind the smile he wore for all to see, knowing that never again could he use that vast storehouse of knowledge and experience to heal the sick and injured, and as I squeezed his hand under the table, he squeezed back, him understanding perfectly my meaning, and I his.

I remembered him elegant and immaculately tailored as he left the house for his office, attired always in a starched, perfectly-ironed, long-sleeved white shirt, bow tie, dark slacks and wingtips polished so that they shone like black diamonds, classic black bag in his left hand, car keys in his right, a grey or black fedora or homburg set squarely on his head, the very picture of a physician. How my aunt Ruth hated those white shirts, though even she conceded that he 'looked like he stepped out of a band box' as he left the house. *grin* But I also remember him in chinos and an old, battered flannel shirt, kneeling in the black, peaty earth of his rose beds, intent upon his pruning, as precise in it as he was in everything else he did, and insisted upon doing well.

I remembered my first baseball game, at Comiskey Park, the four of us in tow, and him insisting that we'd enjoy ourselves because 'all boys like baseball'. Well, I never did become a huge fan of baseball, but I could never turn down the chance to go with him, because he so clearly enjoyed it, and I enjoyed being with him.

I remembered struggling with Algebra I one evening when he and Ruth had come to eat with us, and him spending the next 3 hours patiently getting through my thick Irish skull what the brothers at school had threatened to pound through my other end, and successfully, never once becoming exasperated with my repeated failures to grasp the concept.

I remembered the hours spent together in his den with his stamp collection and his photos of his and Ruth's travels, and the pleasant discovery of a shared passion for history, and geography. His deep, rumbling laugh, at some 'shaggy dog story', or other piece of doggerel. The reverence in the music as he played something from Chopin on the Steinway in their music room. His intense concentration as he sought to get the colors 'just so' as he exposed film in his dark room.

And finally, as we bore his coffin to the straps which would be used to lower it into the earth, I remembered him holding a boy--- me--- who cried as though his heart would break as he told the old man about his parents' deaths, his quiet strength and strong, gentle arms providing a safe haven in which to tell the horrible tale. I knew that he knew the story, but I also knew that here was someone who would truly understand, his own family having also perished at the hands of another maniac, the circumstances different, but the end result the same. I knew I would not be judged, nor encouraged not to think about it, but heard, and loved any way, regardless of what came out of my mouth. And I was. In this, he proved to me that he was not merely a physician, but a healer.

These are but a few of the things I tried to remember yesterday, and why I weep today.

May the God of Light, Mercy and Peace gather you to Him, Uncle Ernst, and hold you safely in His arms, both now and for all time.

Godspeed.