An Heirloom Makes Tea

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The moments before, during, and after a baby is born are as holy as the moments leading up to and immediately following death. There’s a hush, a stillness, a suspension, or alteration, of time. If you’re lucky enough to be present, you might tune in to this sacred liminal space – a precarious precipice on the threshold of life.
Late one afternoon in 2013, I got the call that told me my beloved Aunt Dora had been rushed to the hospital after gracefully collapsing over a display of fresh peaches she was feeling for optimal ripeness in the local market. Without thinking, I booked a flight to Boston – my hometown - where she, two sons, and one granddaughter were living. At one hundred one and a half – yes, those six months matter – Dora was living alone in her stunning Chestnut Hill apartment, unassisted, still visiting museums and attending luncheons with friends. She was my mother’s older sister -formidable, self-assured, refined, well-spoken, the consummate lady.
My cousin Herb, still practicing law well into his eighties, graciously offered to host me during my stay. When we got to the Beth Israel Hospital, we found Dora lying in bed, asleep or unconscious, hooked up to assorted medical equipment. Her French manicure was flawless.
Dora’s other son, Staff, a retired cardiologist known to all at the hospital, shared that the stroke had removed her ability to speak or to swallow, that they were monitoring her heart and giving her IV fluids.
As she’d always recovered in the past, from two cancers and so much more, there was hope, if not an unstated assumption, that this would be no different. But I, the youngest cousin by a mile, who had recently been present at the deaths of my mother, my sister, and my brother, understood that this was, in fact, the end.
Over the next few days, I sat with Dora, telling her about each member of her family and how well they were doing. I felt my mother and sister on either side of me as I sang to her in Hebrew and vowed always to be close to Kathryn, her beloved granddaughter. I spoke about her grandsons, each successful men, happily married and fathers to two children each. And in quiet moments, when I was the only other person in the room, I told her that it was okay to let go...that everyone would be fine...that her work here was done...and that my mom and sister would welcome her with open arms.
Did she hear any of what I said? Perhaps. On a late afternoon when both her sons were at her bedside, her breathing changed. Staff came out into the hall to tell Kathryn and me that the end was drawing near.
“Is there something Jewish that you can do or say?” he asked me, knowing that I was comfortable leading Jewish rituals. Deeply honored, I took a deep breath and sat on the edge of my aunt’s bed...the aunt who bought 8 year-old me white leather gloves on a trip to Italy, who gave me sterling silver serving pieces that I keep wrapped in saran wrap and never remember to use, who told me stories of her childhood that I made into a book for her ninety-fifth birthday. I held her hand, looked deeply into her sky-blue eyes and sang the Shema. And, peacefully, after a life well-lived, she stopped breathing.