To My Dear Parents,
So much has changed since the last time I spoke to you. I have so many things to share. I have so many questions to ask. I feel so sad that you’re not here for me. I miss you and I think about you every day. Sometimes the pain is so great it feels like I will topple over from it. At these times I have to remind myself that this is what was supposed to be. Hashem didn’t make a mistake. He knew all the pain that I would have from your deaths. Each time I have pain I know that this pain was taken into consideration. I believe. I really do. But still, sometimes I wonder.
I know I am an adult. But sometimes I still feel like a young child. I am not sure I know how to do life without you. I still need your guidance, your listening ear and your care. I feel so lonely without you.
Last week we went on vacation. It was wonderful – so relaxing and so much fun. It felt so good to let life’s pressures roll off of me for a few days. I was lighter and more carefree. But through it all there was a running refrain going through my mind: I wish I could share this with my parents. They would be so happy for me. They would love to hear all about it. They would love to see pictures as it is happening. Underneath my smile and laughter, there was pain.
One day we drove up a mountain. The altitude was 40,000 feet. We inched up the windy, twisty, narrow road until we reached the top. I remember when the two of you went to New Hampshire together. You also drove up a high mountain. What did you see when you got to the top? Did you see a miniature world? We saw four different states. We saw life. Houses and office buildings. Streets, highways and cars. Those people down there didn’t know that they were being watched by us, so high above them. They only knew what they saw in front of them. How limited their vision was.
How limited my vision is. I am down here in this world with masked vision. What can I see? What do I know? My understanding of the events in my life is so narrow. My eyes are covered with a thick, thick covering.
I remember after Chesky died, another bereaved mother shared a mashal with you that she took from her own life. She told how she used to drive a small car and could only see what was right in front of her in the street. Then she switched to driving a minivan and had a higher-up view that allowed her to see more. When she started driving a twelve-seater her view went much farther. And when she had an opportunity to sit in a truck, she was able to see so much more.
Sometimes I wish I had a better understanding of where you are and why you aren’t here with me. But Mount Greylock taught me a lesson – although really it is a lesson that started from you. I am much too low down to see even half the picture. But I am high enough to know that each day I can work on accepting Hashem’s will for my life.
Just as you did.