I am not yet two years old. Zaydie (Grandpa in Yiddish) loves me. He plays with me.
Even though he scares me with his play, like when he dresses as a ghost, he is the attention that I get.
Then, no more Zaydie . . . No one ever explains where he is. Not a word is said.
I find out, when I’m an adult, that Mommy and Daddy moved out of the apartment while Zaydie was praying in the synagogue on Shabbos (the Sabbath) morning.
He returned to the apartment expecting Shabbos lunch.
The apartment was locked and the furniture moved out.
No one mentioned his name to me ever again.
No one explained to me that I will never again see my Zaydie.
But I always remember him.
Years later, when I am 48 years old, my brother, Michael, passes to the next world.
At the gravesite, I see Zaydie’s grave, near Michael’s.
The stone reads: “Aron Gordon – Died October 19, 1955 – Age 82 Years – Avinu HaYikar (our beloved father).”
That was Zaydie.
Apparently, he lived until I was ten years old.
I realize that Zaydie had been alive all that time!!!
I throw myself on the ground near the grave and cry bitter tears.
I cry because he had been there and I did not know.
Oh, how I missed out.
Oh, how we both lost out.
That I could have had one person tell me what to do, and tell me what a Torah is, and all about God.
Oh, that I could have had my Zaydie!
Oh, the loss we both had.
But in the 1980’s, when I took on the commandment of not driving on Shabbos, I walked five miles to shul (synagogue) each Shabbos.
I felt Zaydie with me, the whole 2½ hour walk, watching from his resting place.
I felt his smile and satisfaction at my Shabbos observance.
For one whole year, it never rained or snowed on my walk.
