Good morning all, you who I affectionately and playfully refer to as my Literati What an incredible expression of love and trust Miryam Meier-Howard has bestowed upon us this morning, with her entry into our contest, whose finalist prompt is This changes everything. We have created a community that allows us to reveal the …
Good morning all, you who I affectionately and playfully refer to as my Literati
What an incredible expression of love and trust Miryam Meier-Howard has bestowed upon us this morning, with her entry into our contest, whose finalist prompt is This changes everything. We have created a community that allows us to reveal the self that dwells beneath a loosely stitched fabric of words we call fiction.
But Miryam is offering something far more direct today. Isn’t the true purpose of all writing to bond us to our fellow creatures? To give us the sense that the solitary act of writing serves a broader, communal purpose? We are not alone.
Here is Miryam’s story
As expected for October in the Northwest, the wind had turned to an icy chill, and began to weave its draft into crevasses of our lives. The trees, transformed into skeletal arms and legs, stretched out to the sun for the last morsels of warmth. Our parsonage home was like a microchip compared to the massiveness of Mount Rainier, which loomed directly above us.
On this late evening, my husband Brian and I were talking over a cup of chamomile tea in his upstairs office. When the phone rang, I assumed our conversation was over, as whomever calls at this hour usually had something urgent to discuss with the Rabbi. I had learned how to be interrupted, and pick up where we had left off —sometimes days later.
Brian was silent for some time as he listened to the caller. Then he stood up from his chair, with his back to me as he held the receiver to his ear.
Interspersed words sliced into my being,
“Aaron. Accident. Thrown from car. Head.”
Placing the phone down, an anguished cry erupted, “Nooooooo!”
As he turned around, his expression transcended words.
Our son was dead.
My mind began to race, unable to form thoughts. My breath suddenly could not be found. I cried out to my Gd,
“I can’t do this Father. Send me Your Strength!”
My heart was to realize; this changes everything I held dear.
Oh, but for just a small morsel…..
In Loving Memory of Aaron Michael
April 1976 – October 2001