Yizkor

It's okay to cry, and to let others nearby, both young and old, see tears streaming down your cheeks. You don't need to hide your face as you sit in the sanctuary, surrounded by others who have known loss, who understand what it is to grieve. But be careful not to let your tears fall onto the thin paper page of the prayer book. If one of them does, the paper will pucker and thus be forevermore dimpled, a memorial created by a single tear that streamed from your heart, from the depths of your soul, out of your eye, to trace a rivulet down your cheek, to splash a puddle, the smallest ocean of grief, quietly upon it, leaving its mark, permanent proof that the letters printed there, the words of the prayer you just read, were effective at reaching into a heart, whispering into a soul, resonating at your very core. Take a breath. Take another. There. Relax, breathe, you are safe; all is well; you are not alone. You hold a book that is a living thing, about as much as the scrolls that were just held aloft on the bimah. This little volume connects you to your community, to your past, your ancestors, to those who held it before you and those who will hold it tomorrow, next week, next year. The brass plaques on the wall are memorials, but so too is this book. Inside it, on the page marked Yizkor, is the smear of a tear wiped in vain by a slightly soiled hand. Just as the tears streaming down a cheek are proof that a person has a soul, so is a smear proof of a book's humanity. I have damaged the siddur, but nothing human lasts forever. Certainly none of us remains alive without acquiring a blemish, without sustaining an injury, without manifesting signs of aging and decay. As much as tears are proof that we have a soul, the unwelcome scars ands wrinkles that permanently alter us are signs of our humanity. Sorry, where was I going with this? Oh, yes, tears. It's okay to cry.