The summer before Danny and I got married in America, we had an engagement party in Israel. My parents came, of course, as did my brother. When Josh and his friend arrived at my parents’ hotel, they were given a note that my father had written. It said, “If we are not in the room, we are at the pool. I am in disguise. I’m 6-foot-4 with a long blond ponytail, and I answer to the name ‘Lance’.” That was classic Dad, and to this day, I still have friends who refer to him as Lance.
Anyone can tell you that my dad had the best sense of humor. It always pleased me when my friends would meet my father and remark within moments that they could see where my own sense of humor came from. I always referred to it as the “Rosenberg sense of humor”, and was thrilled – but also a little bit scared – when I discovered that Yogev had inherited it as well.
I think about one of our last conversations – not the ones where my father would tell me about his weekly blood test results, a habit we fell into after my mother passed away just under three years ago, but rather about the one where he told me he hoped Yogev knew how much my father loved him. Of course Yogev knows. How could he not? My dad and Yogev have always had the most amazing bond. In my mind’s eye, I can see them snuggling together on the sofa, leaning into one another as my father read him stories or while they both napped – and if you know my father, I’m sure you can imagine how frequently this particular scenario occurred… I can hear them chanting my father’s old school cheers together – cheers he taught me when I was a child as well. I love that my dad shared those memories with my son – even when it led to the two of them singing drinking songs about rye whiskey together over Skype. Actually, those are some of the best moments…
My dad was the guy who everyone remembered, even when they’d only met him once. He could strike up conversations with anyone, and was never afraid to poke fun at himself. Few things embarrassed him, even – or perhaps especially – when he managed to mortify Josh and me. Singing in public elevators when strangers were present? Check. Asking for food samples when they weren’t being offered? Check. Regularly pretending to hold up a small stone between his thumb and forefinger and act as though it had magical powers? Check.
And the fun didn’t stop with us. When I was in high school and he met one of my friends for the first time, we quickly realized that her mother and my father had gone to the same college. “What’s your mother’s name?”, my father asked. “Phyllis Gallo,” answered my friend. My father looked incredulous. “Phyllis Gallo? HOT PHYLLIS?” Dad let my friend look horrified for a moment, before acknowledging with a twinkle in his eye that he and my friend’s mother weren’t even at the school during the same years and had never met. Life was never dull when Dad was around. And by the way, Phyllis still loves that story – it was the first thing my friend’s father mentioned when my friend told her parents that my father had passed.
My father loved our family and was fiercely proud of our accomplishments, extolling our virtues to anyone who would listen. Dad was my greatest fan, telling me that I could write long before I believed it myself and happily sharing my writing with friends and family. Thanks to my dad, everyone knew what a talented artist my mother was, for he never missed an opportunity to sing her praises.
Most of all, though, my dad was crazy about his grandchildren – Yogev, Hannah and Sadie. He would do anything for them, and was thrilled that Yogev was able to spend time with Hannah and Sadie last summer at Camp Barney. It made him so happy to know that they were strengthening their bonds and forging memories – his only wish was that my mother could have lived to see her grandchildren having these experiences together.
My parents were married for fifty years, and my mother was the love of his life. His heart broke when she died, as did ours – for ourselves as much as for him. And yet, out of his profound sorrow, he created a new life for himself, moving into an environment that enabled him to thrive. He even managed to do some traveling, visiting Josh, Cheryl, and the girls in Atlanta on numerous occasions, and spending time with us in Israel. Much to our great joy, he was even able to attend Yogev’s bar mitzvah last year with my brother’s family and other cousins and close friends. The only thing that would have made the day more perfect was if my mother could have been with us as well.
And even though my father was slowing down, I think there was a small part of me that believed he might live forever. Just a few weeks ago, we were talking about us visiting him over Passover, and he spoke about wanting to fly up to Atlanta at the end of July to see Yogev, Hannah and Sadie after summer camp. He even wanted to come back to Israel.
If you had asked me two weeks ago today what I might be doing right now, standing here with a shattered heart, saying goodbye to my father would not have made the list. Yet here I am, doing precisely that. It is exhausting and surreal, and even as I choose to believe that he is overjoyed to be with my mother again, my heart is heavy and my tears won’t stop, for to be with her means that he can no longer be with us. And that makes me terribly, unbearably sad, because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. We love you, Dad, and we’ll really, really miss you.
