I was a little nervous heading off for my first real shiva call—for T's father. Was I dressed appropriately? It's not easy for me to pull together a sober ensemble from my wardrobe of this-and-that rags. But I found some shmattas (!) that seemed to go together—black linen pants, a rayon shirt, a bit of drapery to obscure any infelicities. Hardest were the shoes: I can no longer inflict the sight my discolored, peeling toenails on others, so sandals are out of the question. But I found a pair of flats that matched, and as long as I kept the soles to the floor, no one could tell they had holes. Then there was the fruit platter I had been assigned. I felt sad not making it myself, but the risk of blunder was too great: Are mangos tref? Whole Foods would know the answer to this and other questions—and do a better job of assembly. How long to stay? Too short, and it might be an insult. Too long, and I might be a bore.
But in the end, it was a party! As the friend who by no virtue of her own had been a witness to the death (well, sort of—I was too busy eating to notice that he had died), I seem to have become an honorary family member, beloved by all. Admiring the ladies' hats in old photographs of T's relatives—who could have been my own, so much do '50s styles trump family resemblance—hearing stories, seeing mutual friends, running into an old therapist of mine (T's sister had recommended her back in the days when I was struggling with teen troubles)—and eating all that fabulous food.
Shiva continues for a couple more days. I'm tempted to take my meals there till it's over. But maybe that would be overstaying my welcome.
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