Jaffa Marcus z"l
My mother Jaffa died in 1994 ח' אייר
2000 - 12th May.
(Elana wrote:)
Ma, Mommy, Jaff, Jaffa...
Lately I have been thinking about you a lot. I have been
thinking how you never really said goodbye. You
hinted, and we were too afraid to offend you by saying
the D word.
They explained that denial was also a way of coping.
They told us to let you do it your own way, and we
respected this...
Six years have passed, I think I miss you more than
ever. Every time we all get together I think how much
you would have enjoyed it. For nothing gave you more
pleasure than the family, the togetherness. Even today,
you would have had “naches”. The kids growing up - a
new great grandchild - the family so together and so
loving. Dad trying so hard to cope with life without you.
And we can’t help him. We can’t make it go away. The
fact is - he is a living example of how one should
behave.
We never discussed the fact that you were dying, it
was never mentioned. It wasn’t your style to summon
us up to your bedside and give us instructions about
what to do after you had gone.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but soon after you died, I
wished , maybe childishly, for a sign from you. Would I
see you image among the trees? Would I hear a voice?
Nothing came. I didn’t even dream about you. But one
day, while I was walking home, I just had this definite
feeling from inside. It was you, not a voice, not a
picture, just a feeling that said, “I love you!”
2004 - Mommy's Tenth Memorial
Ora:
For ten years I've been trying to cherish things that
Mommy said to me, things that she liked or made her
laugh. I don't know how it happened that I only now
suddenly remembered that, when she was already ill I
think, she once quoted the words of Noami Shemer's
song "I haven't loved enough."
One line of the song, translated into English goes,
I haven't yet painted a flower, I haven't yet found out
how,
Who would have thought that these words would get
such a literal meaning with Dad's newly discovered
talent.?
עוד לא הקמתי שבט, עוד לא חיברתי שיר
.עוד לא ירד לי שלג באמצע הקציר
אני עוד לא כתבתי את זכרונותי
.ועוד לא בניתי את בית חלומותי
,ואף על פי שאת פה, ואת כל כך יפה
:ממך, אני בורח כמו ממגפה
-עוד יש הרבה דברים שרציתי לעשות
-את בטח תסלחי לי גם בשנה הזאת
באלה הידים עוד לא בניתי כפר
.עוד לא מצאתי מים באמצע המדבר
עוד לא צירתי פרח, עוד לא גיליתי איך
.תוביל אותי הדרך ולאן אני הולך
עוד לא אמרתי די
ואם לא אם לא עכשיו
.אימתי
עוד לא שתלתי דשא, עוד לא הקמתי עיר
.עוד לא נטעתי כרם על כל גבעות - הגיר
עוד לא הכל עשיתיע ממש במו ידי
.עוד לא הכל ניסיתי, עוד לא אהבתי די
,עוד לא אהבתי די
.הרוח והשמש על פני
Mommy died ten years ago on April 19, 1994, ח אייר
תשנ"ד
Elana:
Mommy,
When I was a child, I used to sit in our bathroom in
Kensington and look at my reflection in three mirrors. I
was always intrigued with the infinite number of
images of myself, the pattern getting more and more
complex as you looked deeper into the picture.
Now, from my perspective as a mother and
grandmother myself, I see that this image is a little like
what happened over the course of the years.
My particular DNA and psychological makeup reflects
the generations before me, and similarly everyone
surrounding me is affected by some of the same traits.
In one of our older photograph albums, there is a
faded photograph of my Mommy and me, sitting on a
blanket (maybe at Gillolies farm) dressed in matching
outfits.
Although I was only a baby, there already was a strong
physical resemblance, something in the mouth,
something in the expression.
When little Hila was born in September, I saw a
reverberation of that mouth, of that expression, and I
was deeply moved. I saw my Mommy and I saw myself.
Mommy, it has been ten years since you finally gave in
to your sickness, not without putting up a really good
fight.
Only now do I fully appreciate the fact that you never
ever complained, no matter how terrible you felt.
Perhaps we will never really comprehend your
physical and emotional suffering – it was always a
carefully guarded secret and complaining was
never in your repertoire of communication.
While you were sick, we reversed roles. I became the
Mommy, you the little girl.
The day I convinced the doctors to give you a weekend
home from the hospital, I walked into the ward, and
said, "Guess what? We are going home!" I was
suddenly overwhelmed with my own power, surely this
was not right?
But now, with the passage of time, another Mommy
comes to mind.
This is the Mommy that took books out of the
Kensington Children's library for me, sitting with me for
hours reading "Milly Molly Mandy."
This was the Mommy who told me, "You can't have bad
dream in our bed" or "there is not such thing a witches
in South Africa."
This was the Mommy that spent the evening
shortening my school dress, so I would have a clean
one for tomorrow.
This was the Mommy that decided that I needed
lessons in "cha cha cha" in preparation for the school
dance, or signed me up for a course in Junior Poise
when we walked with books on our heads.
Now, from the perspective of a mother myself, I feel
again your joy and pain.
I feel your frustrations and your sorrows, I feel your
hope for the future of your children.
Mommy, you were never happy with yourself. You
always said, "Today is the first day of the rest of my
life." Or "Tomorrow is another day."
I regret the waste of intelligence and world knowledge.
I am sorry for the unnecessary low self esteem and
the constant need to improve yourself.
But there was always another side to you. You loved a
good time.
You loved to be with the family, with the children and
grandchildren.
Before any family gathering, you always got very
excited, You used to sing, "Tonight tonight is a party –
there's gonna be a party tonight."
You loved singing and get togethers.
You loved humor programs, and comedians.
You hankered after travel and good food in restaurants.
Now we are all carrying on with our lives, battles and
personal challenges.
We all have our own little "packages" to carry, our
sorrows and moments of joy.
You seem to be with us in these times, holding us
together with your love and selflessness, your ability to
endure suffering without complaint and your infinite
love and capacity for love and joy.
Mommy, we love you and miss you.
2006 - Mommy's 12th Memorial
Once again, two days after Yom Ha-atzmaut – just a
day or two after your birthday – beginning of summer –
we stand together as a family to honor your memory.
This has been one of the saddest years. Losing our
beloved David was something that none of us
bargained for – something we can hardly accept. I envy
those people who believe that you and David are
united in heaven. I wish it was true but I don’t think so.
But you are both here with us – every day. In a way, you
were kindred spirits. Deep thinking, secretive, complex
and sharp witted were common traits to both of you.
David wrote:
"Today, I can only recall one honest discussion with
my mother, once again one sided but this time with
me as the originator and she as a passive listener
who I think heard and absorbed every word I said. It
was on one of the last nights at the hospice in
Jerusalem and I had been sitting quietly by her bed on
the stone porch overlooking what I later called the
valley of life. It was nearly the end and I recall holding
her hand and feeling her respond with a firm pressure
to what I was telling her. I recall telling her how much I
loved her, how much I needed to tell this to her, even if
only this once in her life, even now at this end that was
now allowable, permissible and even desirable."
Mommy, this gathering is now like that virtual hand
squeeze – to tell you how much we loved you, how we
will always remember you, and how we, who remain
behind to deal with that "valley of life" keep you in our
hearts every day of the year.
2000 - 12th May.
(Elana wrote:)
Ma, Mommy, Jaff, Jaffa...
Lately I have been thinking about you a lot. I have been
thinking how you never really said goodbye. You
hinted, and we were too afraid to offend you by saying
the D word.
They explained that denial was also a way of coping.
They told us to let you do it your own way, and we
respected this...
Six years have passed, I think I miss you more than
ever. Every time we all get together I think how much
you would have enjoyed it. For nothing gave you more
pleasure than the family, the togetherness. Even today,
you would have had “naches”. The kids growing up - a
new great grandchild - the family so together and so
loving. Dad trying so hard to cope with life without you.
And we can’t help him. We can’t make it go away. The
fact is - he is a living example of how one should
behave.
We never discussed the fact that you were dying, it
was never mentioned. It wasn’t your style to summon
us up to your bedside and give us instructions about
what to do after you had gone.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but soon after you died, I
wished , maybe childishly, for a sign from you. Would I
see you image among the trees? Would I hear a voice?
Nothing came. I didn’t even dream about you. But one
day, while I was walking home, I just had this definite
feeling from inside. It was you, not a voice, not a
picture, just a feeling that said, “I love you!”
2004 - Mommy's Tenth Memorial
Ora:
For ten years I've been trying to cherish things that
Mommy said to me, things that she liked or made her
laugh. I don't know how it happened that I only now
suddenly remembered that, when she was already ill I
think, she once quoted the words of Noami Shemer's
song "I haven't loved enough."
One line of the song, translated into English goes,
I haven't yet painted a flower, I haven't yet found out
how,
Who would have thought that these words would get
such a literal meaning with Dad's newly discovered
talent.?
עוד לא הקמתי שבט, עוד לא חיברתי שיר
.עוד לא ירד לי שלג באמצע הקציר
אני עוד לא כתבתי את זכרונותי
.ועוד לא בניתי את בית חלומותי
,ואף על פי שאת פה, ואת כל כך יפה
:ממך, אני בורח כמו ממגפה
-עוד יש הרבה דברים שרציתי לעשות
-את בטח תסלחי לי גם בשנה הזאת
באלה הידים עוד לא בניתי כפר
.עוד לא מצאתי מים באמצע המדבר
עוד לא צירתי פרח, עוד לא גיליתי איך
.תוביל אותי הדרך ולאן אני הולך
עוד לא אמרתי די
ואם לא אם לא עכשיו
.אימתי
עוד לא שתלתי דשא, עוד לא הקמתי עיר
.עוד לא נטעתי כרם על כל גבעות - הגיר
עוד לא הכל עשיתיע ממש במו ידי
.עוד לא הכל ניסיתי, עוד לא אהבתי די
,עוד לא אהבתי די
.הרוח והשמש על פני
Mommy died ten years ago on April 19, 1994, ח אייר
תשנ"ד
Elana:
Mommy,
When I was a child, I used to sit in our bathroom in
Kensington and look at my reflection in three mirrors. I
was always intrigued with the infinite number of
images of myself, the pattern getting more and more
complex as you looked deeper into the picture.
Now, from my perspective as a mother and
grandmother myself, I see that this image is a little like
what happened over the course of the years.
My particular DNA and psychological makeup reflects
the generations before me, and similarly everyone
surrounding me is affected by some of the same traits.
In one of our older photograph albums, there is a
faded photograph of my Mommy and me, sitting on a
blanket (maybe at Gillolies farm) dressed in matching
outfits.
Although I was only a baby, there already was a strong
physical resemblance, something in the mouth,
something in the expression.
When little Hila was born in September, I saw a
reverberation of that mouth, of that expression, and I
was deeply moved. I saw my Mommy and I saw myself.
Mommy, it has been ten years since you finally gave in
to your sickness, not without putting up a really good
fight.
Only now do I fully appreciate the fact that you never
ever complained, no matter how terrible you felt.
Perhaps we will never really comprehend your
physical and emotional suffering – it was always a
carefully guarded secret and complaining was
never in your repertoire of communication.
While you were sick, we reversed roles. I became the
Mommy, you the little girl.
The day I convinced the doctors to give you a weekend
home from the hospital, I walked into the ward, and
said, "Guess what? We are going home!" I was
suddenly overwhelmed with my own power, surely this
was not right?
But now, with the passage of time, another Mommy
comes to mind.
This is the Mommy that took books out of the
Kensington Children's library for me, sitting with me for
hours reading "Milly Molly Mandy."
This was the Mommy who told me, "You can't have bad
dream in our bed" or "there is not such thing a witches
in South Africa."
This was the Mommy that spent the evening
shortening my school dress, so I would have a clean
one for tomorrow.
This was the Mommy that decided that I needed
lessons in "cha cha cha" in preparation for the school
dance, or signed me up for a course in Junior Poise
when we walked with books on our heads.
Now, from the perspective of a mother myself, I feel
again your joy and pain.
I feel your frustrations and your sorrows, I feel your
hope for the future of your children.
Mommy, you were never happy with yourself. You
always said, "Today is the first day of the rest of my
life." Or "Tomorrow is another day."
I regret the waste of intelligence and world knowledge.
I am sorry for the unnecessary low self esteem and
the constant need to improve yourself.
But there was always another side to you. You loved a
good time.
You loved to be with the family, with the children and
grandchildren.
Before any family gathering, you always got very
excited, You used to sing, "Tonight tonight is a party –
there's gonna be a party tonight."
You loved singing and get togethers.
You loved humor programs, and comedians.
You hankered after travel and good food in restaurants.
Now we are all carrying on with our lives, battles and
personal challenges.
We all have our own little "packages" to carry, our
sorrows and moments of joy.
You seem to be with us in these times, holding us
together with your love and selflessness, your ability to
endure suffering without complaint and your infinite
love and capacity for love and joy.
Mommy, we love you and miss you.
2006 - Mommy's 12th Memorial
Once again, two days after Yom Ha-atzmaut – just a
day or two after your birthday – beginning of summer –
we stand together as a family to honor your memory.
This has been one of the saddest years. Losing our
beloved David was something that none of us
bargained for – something we can hardly accept. I envy
those people who believe that you and David are
united in heaven. I wish it was true but I don’t think so.
But you are both here with us – every day. In a way, you
were kindred spirits. Deep thinking, secretive, complex
and sharp witted were common traits to both of you.
David wrote:
"Today, I can only recall one honest discussion with
my mother, once again one sided but this time with
me as the originator and she as a passive listener
who I think heard and absorbed every word I said. It
was on one of the last nights at the hospice in
Jerusalem and I had been sitting quietly by her bed on
the stone porch overlooking what I later called the
valley of life. It was nearly the end and I recall holding
her hand and feeling her respond with a firm pressure
to what I was telling her. I recall telling her how much I
loved her, how much I needed to tell this to her, even if
only this once in her life, even now at this end that was
now allowable, permissible and even desirable."
Mommy, this gathering is now like that virtual hand
squeeze – to tell you how much we loved you, how we
will always remember you, and how we, who remain
behind to deal with that "valley of life" keep you in our
hearts every day of the year.
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