Yahrzeit
PM
Kellermann
Jewish tradition calls for the lighting of a candle on Yahrzeit, the anniversary of a loved one’s death. Enclosed in glass, the Yahrzeit candle burns for twenty-four hours—a steady, dim incandescence. Some of my gentile friends use these candles on their tables at small dinner parties, though many ceased the practice when they learned the candles’ intended purpose. While I rarely say any prayers, I burn the candles religiously. It is simply another way to remember, to pause, to reflect.
But it seemed so negative to light candles only on the anniversaries of death. Several years ago, I got into the habit of lighting Yahrzeit candles on birthdays too. I wanted to celebrate my loved ones’ lives, not merely mourn their deaths. And so, on the eve of every March 10, May 27, August 8, November 24, December 6 and 13, I light a candle. But what do I do on March 28? My father died on Brian’s birthday. Do I light two candles: one life, one death? Or do I let a single candle do double duty? Were it not encased in glass, I could burn the candle at both ends. But I do that, metaphorically speaking, 365 days a year. A ritual means of remembering must be a deviation from the normal path.
And then there are the pets. In the Kellermann house, pets are considered members of the family. Every October 25, I light a candle in memory of Melyssia, my dog of almost eighteen years. I never replaced Melyssia—how could I, she had been my constant companion for most of my adult life—but when Brian died, I inherited his two dogs (Oblio and Annie) and Lynne’s two cats (Emmy and Carly).
On April 9, 1995, the one-year anniversary of the big bash we threw celebrating Brian’s fortieth birthday, I woke up early on a Sunday morning to put his dog Annie to sleep. Annie—a 115-pound golden retriever, a waddling sauceboat of sloshy love—had developed the family disease: a rapidly spreading mass cell tumor. We tried everything—Prednisone, surgery, chemotherapy, more surgery, more chemo—but all of our efforts proved futile.
With the two cats watching over me and all the doors on my path propped open, I bent down and swooped Annie into my arms. She was heavier than I expected, a massive clump of dead weight. I strode through the front door stoically—across the porch, down the steps, along the sidewalk to my car. Twisting my body, I bent down to lay Annie gently onto the back seat; and as I did, I felt something snap. My back thrown out, my dog put down, I spent the next four days in bed, doped up on grief and Percocet.
But what about the cats? When the anniversaries of their deaths come next summer, will I light candles in their memories? Sisters, they came into the world together; they died four days apart. Emmy and Carly had been Lynne’s cats. When Lynne died, they went to Mom. When Mom died, they went to Dad. When Dad died, they went to Brian. When Brian died, they came to me. In time, I grew to love these cats—though I was still convinced, in my ofttimes-delusional state, that Carly possessed supernatural powers (and was, in fact, the reincarnation of Shiva the Destroyer). And now, Emmy and Carly’s ashes, mixed together, sit in an urn on a bookcase in my office, just inches from Melyssia’s ashes. (Annie’s ashes were spread on Brian’s grave.)
I suppose next August I’ll light a candle for Carly and one for Emmy and one for Brian in between. Or maybe, I should buy a long-lasting Yahrzeit candle to burn for the entire second week of the month. As it is, I’ve been contemplating buying my Yahrzeit candles in bulk. There’s always a need in the Kellermann house. So much to remember, so many lives intertwined with mine. But I don’t need candles to remember. Every day, I light the candles in my mind that burn their impressions onto the page.