But June 12 1968 certainly does.Opa hadn't really been well for a few months. He was content to sit without reading his paper; that was new for him. When I sat next to him, he wanted more physical contact than he ever permitted and never sought before. For his 80ieth birthday, March 8, Steven and Linda and I drove to their apartment building. The kids loved to ride the elevator and inhale the cooking smells in the hallway. They had never lived in an apartment building; neither had I.
We had decided in advance to bring 8 large candles instead of 80 small ones, making it easier for him to blow them out. Steve was just turning nine, Linda was six and a half. I carried baby Ted, just a year old.
For Seder the next month, Uncle Willy picked "the parents" as they were referred to, up in his car and drove them to my parents' home in Millburn. My mother, Aunt Lisa, Uncle Willy, Sharyn and Bert, Oma on one side, Opa at the head and my father at the other end of the table with Steve next to him, Linda, Gilbert and me, baby Ted in a high chair.
I insisted on sitting on my Opa's right hand, as I had since I was eight.
Over the course of the 22 years we had sat in this manner at the Passover table, Aunt Lis and then joined by my husband, groused at how long the readings took before dinner was served.
But not this night.
My father was prepared to lead the service; Opa could hardly see anymore. But Opa stood with his wine glass shaking in his hand and began to recite the Kiddush, the book open before him, but he did not read. He did the whole service from memory, only letting my mother give out the symbolic foods. Steven read the Four Questions.
After he sat down, and Opa began to read the answers to the questions, in Hebrew from memory, the tears began to fall. There was not a dry eye I could see. We were all aware, this was the last time Opa would be here with us on this day.
