Saying goodbye to Manuela

I went to my first "stone posing" ceremony. I'm not sure if it's even called that in English. I'm translating from French, when a Jewish person dies, they wait a year to put the tombstone on the grave. My father missed that target by a bit more but let's leave that story...

I actually didn't go to the funeral. I can't remember why but I didn't get notice of it in time. It was such a shocking, sudden death, I'm not sure what happened. It was over before I found out. I wanted to be sure not to miss this one when I heard and knew I'd be in town for it.

Daniel took the kids to Benfeld, to see his mother so that I could go alone.

It was my first time too in the large Cronenbourg (of beer fame) cemetery. We drive by it every morning on our way to school and I always think of her. But I had no idea of its size until I entered it. It goes way back, away from view. I couldn't find a parking space and for the first time, glad of it! I turned around and headed up the street, a neighborhood I know very well, and gave myself a little walk on a beautiful day. I was in no mood to do the "creative French parking" thing. I left the sidewalks to the bikes and walkers.

I had a lot in common with her. We were the same age and became mothers the same year, to boys. She was also foreign, kind of. She had an Italian-Catholic father and an Alsatian-Jewish mother. Growing up in Italy, she spoke both languages. She was able to marry her Sephardic husband without a conversation, even though she was baptised and raised Catholic. She was really both.

Her son was also about the same age I was when I lost my father. I can't lie. Losing a mother is not the same thing, as sad as losing Daddy was. He's also an only child whereas at least I had my sister, going through the same thing.

I was heartened to see so many people. Andre, the husband looked pleased but when the ceremony started, I couldn't look at him. He just looked so sad.

The fall colors have come late this year and Alsace is all in color. It was a little foggy at first, but luckily not too cold.

The fog started to lift and right before the ceremony started, the bells from a nearby church started to ring. I thought how appropriate it was, although I doubt anyone else in the largely Jewish crowd thought the same!

It was quick and then everyone stood in line to put rocks on her tombstone. So much prettier than those plaques we have back home! No flowers though, although from the distance, I saw one grave so adorned (a rebel??) I have to admit that it was hard seeing "1964" on the stone.

Then Andre was greeting everyone. I was going to do a quick handshake and dash out of there but he threw his arms around me, thanked me for coming and asked about my little adventure in the hospital. I also said hi to the son. I did tell him that I had a lot in common with his mom and had lost my own dad at about his age. If he every wanted to talk, I was happy to oblige. I really wanted to say to him "You're going to hate playing the Tragic Child sometimes. You'll get sick of the question about how she died. You'll still miss her 35 years later like I miss my father. There will be that touch of sadness to every milestone from now on. You'll have a hard time turning 45 years old because you'll know that's the birthday she never had".  I guess he'll find all that out as he goes like I did...