Dear Gaby,
Gaby, Gaby, Gaby.
I’m gonna try something here and I hope it works.
I’m gonna try to write this as fast as words will allow because three and a half years after your passing they are as lost as ever trying to find their way out of whatever forest of expression they’re locked inside.
When you passed away I wondered if there would ever be a time when words would come. I had been in the habit of writing every day that year and then it was as if I couldn’t write anymore. Sentences lacked syntax. Words fumbled. My tongue took up my whole mouth.
All of these memories flooding like the tears that poured out of my eyes when I hugged you inside of 825 and shut the door while the whole family was still gathered inside. I shut the door and lost my footing and lost my breath and lost the ability to keep my eyes open and mind straight. I lost the breath in my body and the oxygen in the air because the world was tumbling and I felt helpless to stop it. Inside I hugged Ari and began to tremble. Inside I hugged Don and began to shake. And lastly, I hugged you…
…you who couldn’t have possibly been so frail considering the unbelievable—I’m talking un-fucking-believable amount of strength that it took to live the life you lived and battle and battle and battle and say, “FUCK YOU” to the advanced stages of gastric cancer for four years.
When I hugged you I felt it. All of the strength that a universe could muster. I felt your fight. I felt your energy. The warmth. I felt your love. I felt it all. I felt you trying to hold me together. You, who was going through the unimaginable, trying to hold ME together.
Leaving felt like turning my back. And then, like a balloon pierced with a knife, the ability to comprehend or move on or accept or try to process and figure things out sort of fell right on its face and standing on two feet seemed impossible.
Gaby, Gaby, Gaby.
I can’t help but think of a table suddenly empty.
A table of dialogue. A bridge. A table filled with people. Celebrating holidays. Celebrating each other. You were a celebration.
Where has the table gone?
There used to be a time where there wasn’t enough room and not enough seats, so then more seats would come and line along the border of the dining room and stretch into the living room.
You were unmissable. A force of nature. A gravity. A rare piece to hold us all together.
And I haven’t even mentioned the food. Oh good lord, the food.
“If music be the food of love, play on!” How you played Gaby.
How your creations in the kitchen were manifestations of a love that kept growing and never disappeared. The Greek Salads. The pastas. The spanakopita. The rugeleh. The knishes. The way you’d make fish. The salmons. The halibuts. The “break the fast” spreads, platters filled with lox and cream cheese and onions and tomatoes and capers and and and—
Gaby! Gaby! Gaby!
How you made life beautiful! How that kick-ass attitude from Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn sung and weaved and jumped and fluttered in laughter and love. You were a second mom to me. You always were.
You were a woman of the people, deeply invested in service to the community. Staying over at the synagogue. Assisting shelters. Getting us to teen feeds. Making sure we were all getting involved, too.
Sometimes I wonder if you had access to a 25 hour day and whether you were so involved in the lives of others that you didn’t have enough time for yourself.
I have so many of your emails saved. The words, reach through the screen and comfort my heart. They possess powers. They are living words. Immortal.
Gaby.
I remember Sundays. Sunday mornings, specifically. I remember how you used to walk with my mom. Sometimes with Laurie and Cathy and Mary, too. But in this instance I remember just you and my mom. Sunday mornings. I know those walks were so special to you both. In rain or sunshine.
And I remember the voicemails you used to leave at 206 547 5024.
“Hey Meta, it’s Gaby…”
Before we got rid of our home phone, I made sure to record all the messages of you that we still had left.
6 minutes. 20 seconds. All you.
L’olam. Va’ed.
Love you, Gaby.