Hopeful New Year!

My friend and his siblings chose to officially bury their mother's ashes on December 21, because it was her favorite day of the year. Well, and because the funeral home needed to clear the shelves, make way for some new urns. But mostly because it was her favorite day, although frankly I'd prefer to be doing anything but getting buried on my favorite day.

Shirley -- whom I admittedly got to know more from her children's and grandchildren's stories than I did from my few visits with her, toward the end -- was a lady who made an impression. Though she only died a little more than a month ago, an imperfect storm of illnesses had already curtailed her breathing and her thinking and her well-documented penchant for dishing out advice. Still, I am an unwitting beneficiary of her wisdom, as there seems to be no shortage of Shirley-isms for any occasion, or for any dilemma. "Here's what my mom would have done...." her son tells me, as I immediately search for a place to hide. The last thing I need is advice. The very last thing I need is advice from dead people.

At Shirley's funeral, the rabbi put aside his own notes and removed an envelope from his pocket. He had known Shirley for a long time, and was not surprised that she had written a letter, with instructions that it be read at her funeral service. To say that Shirley wrote her own eulogy would be inaccurate; that would be crass — more like something I would do, just in case my kids got it wrong. Shirley’s beautiful words said nothing about her, though they spoke volumes about who she was. It was a goodbye letter, to her friends, her family, and even the tangential folks like me who blew into her life for a brief cameo. It was a reminder, to those she left behind, of all that she loved — the people, the flowers, the rainbows. It was about a life well lived, by a woman who seemed to always know, no matter what happened, that life is a gift.

At the shiva, the Rabbi explained to us that though Shirley had just died, she was still not completely dead. Not as creepy as it sounds; he explained, quite logically, that we don't really die until there is nobody left who remembers us. For some, it will be the well-stocked bank of sayings that Shirley had at her fingertips for, well, everything. For others, it will be the ambivalent void left by the absence of her advice, suddenly wanted more than ever. For others still, it will be her generosity and her love of life and the people in it. For me, it will be my newfound love for December 21, the embodiment of the notion of a glass more than half full.

December 21 was not Shirley's birthday, or any of her kids' birthdays, or either of her wedding anniversaries. It was probably not, most of the time, a particularly sunny or warm day in the Midwest, where Shirley lived and died. Well, lived, and died for the first time. December 21 is the shortest day of the year, which, for Shirley, meant the best was yet to come. Wishing everybody a happy, healthy, and optimistic 2018!