The last three days have been a blur. The funeral. The first night of shiva. The interment. The second night of shiva.
And then the heartbreak of cleaning out J’s room yesterday. What to keep? What to discard? They are only things, but will they bring comfort later?
The stories bring comfort. J as a teacher, a neighbor, a friend. Her students loved her. They were not the only ones.
Then there was the dream on the first night. Our children and I and the extended family were in a meadow. J was a large yellow and black butterfly, fluttering among us. Has she completed her metamorphosis?
She is still with us. Last night lighting shabbas candles, I felt her there.
There is finally comfort in knowing that she is always with us — not the J at the end, but the one who made her grandmother’s yeast rolls with our son, wrote funny letters to our daughter at summer camp, and danced in the kitchen with me.