A Sardine's Siren Song
Yahrzeit’s Alarm Clock
By Sue Greenberg

My father, alev a sholom, has a way of insisting himself into the room, even 22 years after his death. As if the calendar wouldn’t be reminder enough, my own gray-haired ghost comes calling as soon as 4th of July’s fireworks fade.

Susie!

Yes, Dad.

It’s my yahrzeit this weekend, you know.

I know, Daddy. I bought the yartsite candle.

If you keep that thing burning all day, put it in the sink, you hear?

Got it, Dad.

You need a fire in your condo like you need a hold in the head…

Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll meet you at the gravesite tomorrow to say Kaddish.

Your mother and your sister said Kaddish this morning. According to the Hebrew calendar.

Well, Dad, you know me. I do things in my own way.

Course, your mother wouldn’t remember now anyway.

Dad…

Face facts, Susie. That’s early Alzheimer’s. Not that her memory was ever that good.
Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Stones all around.

My visits to Moe’s gravesite are a solitary ritual reserved for Father’s Day, birthdays, and yahrzeits. One exit off 805 takes me from Sorrento Valley’s traffic and corporate highrises to surreal green grounds and marbled statuary. An impatient Fed-Ex truck whizzes past me as I make a left turn into El Camino Mortuary, gravel popping beneath my tires. I pull my car up along the gutter, setting the car (and myself) at an angle. I make sure I’m within the guidelines of the green-and-white stenciled “Jewish Lawn.”

Out of respect for other visitors, the stillness of this warm summer day, I nudge the car door shut and step lightly onto the soft lawn. Short pieces of freshly mowed grass stick to my shoes as I step carefully around the headstones, negotiating the length of what were once Esther Simon, Milton Mankiewicz, Dottie Feingold. As I wander sideways along the rows – Devorah Tanner, Herbert Heller, Nathan Rabinowitz – a swirling panic reminds me of what I must tell myself ever time I visit. I don’t remember exactly where he’s buried, and I must feel the loss anew.

Because Moe’s yahrzeit falls in the month of Tammuz, the Hebrew month that overlaps late June and early July, every nuance of the sun’s angle, the shadows of a tree’s shade, the sweat on my back, or the promise of a cool breeze hints at an old, abiding sorrow. One that I’m accustomed to now, having mourned him for two decades. Before the summer held these memories, however, Moe claimed a different summertime countenance in my head. The teenager in me can still hear him:

Not with the barefeet!

What, Dad? I'm just going in the backyard…

I wouldn't go out there with the bare feet, Susie. You don't know what's on the ground. Those birds are filthy...they carry disease…

Dad. It's the lawn. The lawn feels good on bare feet.

Full of dog shit.

Daddy, no dogs would dare come back here; you wouldn't let them.

Not too long out there, Susie...

It's been a half-hour, Susan. You should take a break. It's hot as hell out there…
Fifteen more minutes, Dad.

Come inside and I'll fix some lunch.

I'm not hungry…

Now, that would be a first!

Very funny. I hear the phone ringing…

Bastards!

Dad, the phone!

See how those moles are making holes in the lawn?

Aren't you getting the phone, Dad?

Just a minute, just a minute! I'm not your secretary!

Who was it?

Your mother…

What'd she want?

You’re not gonna like it…

What?

She says I shouldn't let you sit out in the sun all day, you need to clean the house...

Fifteen minutes....

Okay, that's enough, Susie. You've been out there for over an hour....

It feels like 15 minutes.

Three quarters of an hour, already; I've been watching the clock.

Dad, let me just finish reading the paper and then I'll come in and clean.

Geez, this lawn furniture looks like hell.
Yeah, it's pretty trashed, Dad. We've had it since we were kids.

Shoulda painted it years ago....

Or at least covered it when it rained....

You kids used to love sitting around the table when I'd barbecue…

You should barbecue this weekend, Daddy.
Nahh. Too much of a hassle. Wind blowing. Goddamn coals never stay hot. You gotta watch that chicken every minute....

Man, I remember that chicken!

I made a mean barbecue chicken, eh, Susie?

You sure did, Dad. We loved your chicken...

It's too hot out here. I'm going in to make lunch... You're burning out there, Susie. Knock it off, already.

What're you making?

Sardine sandwich. I found one miserable can that wasn't dented. You know to stay away from the dented cans, right?

Right, Dad. Just give more minutes…

Susie? I'm making fried potatoes…

You are? With onions?

Yep. The whole deal.

You haven't made those in years!

What we really need is a cream soda.

I used to love when we had cream soda at the deli. Remember, Dad? Diller's on Fourth? You used to take me there after the orthodontist.

It's a lousy record store now….

You know, Susie, we won't be able to sit around and talk like this forever.

I don’t go back to school for a month, Dad.
I mean, I'll be gone one day. And you'll feel sad when you think about this time.

Oh, Dad. What are you talking about? I can always buy sardines at the store.

Okay, okay. Joke if you want. But you're getting too much sun already. Mark my
words, 20 years from now, you could get skin cancer. So come inside and have some lunch... And put something on those feet!

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