It’s hard to lose friends - The Jewish Standard

I know. The dawning of a new year should be filled with joy, optimism, hope and all kinds of happy thoughts. It’s just that sometimes it doesn’t work out like that.

So, yesterday, when I should have been thinking of how to prepare a nice fatty brisket, instead I was crying at Evelyn’s interment. It was a long burial, and every ritual was scrupulously observed. Each shovelful of dirt pounded in my head and my heart as I watched, wanting to stop them from taking away this cherished and perfect human being.

I know you all know how old I am. Evelyn was the same age. We were only a few weeks apart, and for most of those almost 87 years we loved each other, in that special way that women share friendship, deeply, filled with similarities and coincidences, and too many things in common for it to be merely accidental, so many that it had to be Divine.

Take our kids, for instance. Two of her three and two of my four were the closest of friends, just about forever. Sure, marriage and children of their own and careers interrupted the narrative at times, but in their hearts, they were more like family than friends. Whenever they met they would get right up to speed, catching up quickly and often finding themselves on the very same page. They didn’t ever have to say hello. Instantly, they were together with their stories of their lives and commonalities. Solomon Schechter School of Essex and Union being a major player. And Columbia University, of course.

And our husbands. Would it surprise you to know that they worked together? It never surprised me. It just seemed to be the natural flow. Her Henry, who died more than 20 years ago, was among the most brilliant, calm, and loving people I ever knew. His presence was felt yesterday as we stood at the shared gravestone that would soon have her name adjoining his.

And what a convoluted story their romance had been. Henry, born in Paris, escaped Hitler by climbing over the Pyrenees mountains. He eventually earned a Ph.D. and found Evelyn, a beautiful, supremely intelligent, peaceful, kind and loving woman, a woman with a radiant soul, to share his life. And when she was very ill, many years ago, he nurtured her, returning her to health. Eventually, too young, it was his time, and she tended to him with incredible tenderness until he could suffer no more. But there was never drama in their lives. They faced every crisis with love, immense courage, and gentleness.

They were those consummate Jews who we could all shep nachas from, committed always, teaching their children, speaking Hebrew (and Yiddish), loving Israel with broad and majestic depth. Evelyn’s sister lived there and raised her own amazing sabra children there, always keeping close with the New Jersey clan, visiting often and honoring their unique bond as identical twins. Phyllis, the other twin, died on June 22, a mere few weeks ago. We visited the shiva house in Riverdale. Evelyn was sad but stoic. She looked exceedingly well, healthy, slim, and as always, elegant. We embraced with great warmth, not knowing that this would be our last meeting. But, does anyone ever know such things?

As if this wasn’t enough, I lost another dear friend, Sheila, a few months ago. We were born at the Beth four days apart and grew up in that same revered Weequahic neighborhood, sharing our childhoods and then marrying, each a boy named Al, a week apart in June 1960, and continuing the friendship throughout the times of our lives.

These tales of old friendship and old people cannot surprise anyone but me. They are snippets of life, and life is terminal. But as old as I feel, when the joints ache, and the energy is drained, and the mind is forgetful, what I remember of my old friends is planning for college and our weddings and having our children and believing that our lives would truly go on forever, that we were young and vibrant and beautiful and the best years awaited us.

These days that has indeed become very hard to believe.

And to you, my newer friends, those I write to every week, may your new year begin on a high note, a note of joy and apples and honey, and yes, fatty brisket, and great expectations, and may you be blessed with good fortune and good health and enduring friendships with people you love. L’shana tova!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of 12. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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