Memorials

“You  must have some good stories, my wife said to the taxi driver who was driving her home, after learning that he had driven a cab for a long time.  This is one of the stories he told her. 

Many years ago on Christmas Day, a Park Avenue doorman hailed his cab.  When the driver stopped, the doorman ushered into the taxi an old man and then handed the old man six packages and six envelopes.  “I want you to give one of these packages and one of these envelopes to each of the first five taxi drivers you see,” said the old man to the driver.  This the driver proceeded to do.  After the fifth package and the fifth envelope had been delivered, the old man said the remaining package and envelope were for the driver.  The driver opened the package where he found a bottle of champagne.  In the envelope was a hundred dollar bill.  “My father was a cabdriver,” said the old man, but I’ve been fortunate, so each Christmas I give these presents as a memorial to him.”

The story made me think of my own father and what if anything I’ve done to commemorate him.  He died almost 35 years ago, and, I must admit, not even once have I said kaddish for him, not during the year following his death, as is customary, and not on its anniversary, which is customary too.  My father had not done so for his father either, as far as I can recall, but in any case in the early years after my father died, I didn’t attend religious services and didn’t know how to say the prayer.  But even if I had observed the obligation to recite the kaddish in his memory, the prayer is for the living, not the dead.

But aren’t all memorials for the living?  The dead do not know what gestures have been made in their memory – the hospital wings, the plaques, the statues, the monuments, the contributions to charities in their names, and so forth.  These memorials help the living give thanks for the lives of their loved ones or, in some cases, assuage guilt for things said or done or not said or not done while the deceased was still alive. 

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my father, if for no other reason that every time I look in the mirror I see him.  But I often recall things he’s said.  When, for example, a doctor I’m consulting for the first time tells me to come back in three months, I tell him that, according to my father, “come back in three months” are the most beautiful words in the English language.  I often recall his urging me to make a date with my brother’s sister-in-law, who he averred was a very nice girl.  “Leave me alone, Dad” I replied with not a little annoyance.  He knew me better than I knew myself, for two years later we were married, to his great pleasure and my lasting benefit.

I wish I could do something as flamboyant and as much fun as giving away bottles of champagne and hundred dollar bills on the anniversary of his death, but I know that such extravagance would displease him.  So my memorial to him are my memories.  “May their memory serve as a blessing” is often said of the dead.  I’m glad to say that his memory serves that function for me.


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