It was surreal walking into my Aunt Vera’s apartment after her death. Throughout the seven-day shiva mourning period, I had been dreading ringing the doorbell with no one to ask, “Who is there?” on the other side.
Walking into someone else’s world without them there felt insensitive, like an intrusion. The familiar furniture stood in its place, and her slippers were carefully positioned in the corner. The pictures of my children together with Aunt Vera were hanging on every wall. One was of my boys when they were still little, and she she was so much younger, and I felt overwhelmed by how quickly time had passed by. I felt her absence acutely.
I walked into the kitchen and noticed a huge medicine container with 12 colorful pills sorted for each day of the week. These tablets will never be taken. A calendar with doctors’ appointments and birthday reminders hung on the wall. Food was stored carefully inside the refrigerator, along with her favorite chocolate, salads, yogurts and grape juice for Shabbat. Cabinets were stocked with extra bags of sugar, pasta and matzah from the previous year. She planned to use it all one day.
My aunt’s death came unexpectedly. She left for the hospital with a fever on Wednesday, thinking she would return home in a few days. She was diagnosed with COVID-19, and within days, things went downhill. Aunt Vera passed away from COVID-related pneumonia less than two weeks from the day she left her home.
I walked into the bathroom and saw her toothbrush. There was something so overwhelming about seeing her bathroom items. Her towels hung on the rack with robes neatly lined up on the hooks of the door.
I glanced into her bedroom and stared at her bed. When my children were young, I used to come here during lunch hour for a quick nap. This was my hiding place, a sanctuary away from family and work. In her drawer, I found my sleeping mask and earplugs. Everything was in its regular place, yet everything had changed.
As we were collecting items to take home, my children unexpectedly came across a black zippered bag that was hidden among Aunt Vera’s clothes. They opened it to discover almost one thousand dollars in $1 bills. She never had biological children, but my brother and I, and later our children, were the recipients of her unconditional love. Aunt Vera lived on a subsidized income, yet throughout the years her gifts were always thoughtful. She knew how to give in a simple and attentive way.
Among the bills hidden inside the black bag, we found a folded, hand-written piece of paper. The note conveyed her gratitude to our family, and asked that my children and my brother’s children split this inheritance equally and use it for a good purpose.
The single dollar bills transported me back to the time when my Aunt Vera and I stood next to the Lubavitcher Rebbe in Brooklyn, N.Y., who handed each family member a dollar bill and instructed us to give it to charity, thus starting a chain reaction of good deeds. The Rebbe gifted us with this blessing more than 30 years ago, right after our emigration from the former Soviet Union.
My aunt treasured that bill and perhaps took a lesson from the Rebbe’s gift. She had been saving this inheritance, one dollar at a time, for many years, and after her death, the next generation of children are able to transform her monetary inheritance into a spiritual one.
Judaism teaches us that a soul descends into our world to accomplish a mission—to refine a body and transform this physical world into a dwelling place for G‑d. When we complete our missions collectively, G‑d will dwell openly in this world. This is the idea of the coming of Moshiach.
Our forefather Jacob, who lived and worked for his evil father-in-law, Laban, recognized that everything in the world has a spiritual purpose. He worked as a shepherd for 20 years, and later recrossed a river to retrieve a few small jugs because he realized that physical things need to be harnessed and used for their G‑dly purpose. Our possessions are invaluable when they help us achieve our mission. Every soul is responsible for its own unique sparks of G‑dliness that need to be uncovered in this world, as our sages taught: “A person will never take a portion designated for a colleague.”
It was extremely painful to sort through the belongings of my beloved Aunt Vera, and yet I knew that they had served their purpose. I was comforted to know that these things helped her soul achieve her purpose in this world. My family took a few keepsakes and donated the rest of my aunt’s possessions.
A good friend who had come with us also wanted a memory from my aunt’s life. She chose a tablecloth, explaining, “I want to offer people comfort. Whenever my friends need a break, the kind that Vera provided from the daily grind, they can visit and have a comforting cup of tea on Vera’s tablecloth at my table. Her care for others will continue in my home.”
When I walked out of her empty apartment for the final time, I knew that in my memory, Vera will always unlock her door with a smile, shower me with love and retrieve my sleeping accessories so I can rest from my busy life. While the physical address will no longer serve its purpose, the spiritual warmth will continue in her legacy.
(May the soul of Chaya Sara bat Chaim find eternal peace.)