Where authors and readers come together!

Yahrzeit

(parental grief in a Jewish holy place)

I kindle a soul light for thee this eve,
when dawn awakens, I'll be able to see
a shadow of thy face ere mine eyes
as was before and shall always be.

Each morn I gather me to this place,
wherein I've heard G-d resides.
I search but Him I have not seen
His face as from Moshe hides.

A gray beard weeps over an ancient folio bent
in whom there yet burns the holy flame.
"Why art thou here too, Rebbe?" I ask.
"The reason, my son, is like yours the same."

"A lifetime ago I've forsaken him not,
like you I won't let his memory to fade.
I am here to assuage a young father's pain
so that aloneness not make him any more afraid."

revised 11/10/10

Alan D. Busch
11/3/10

Where authors and readers come together!



poetry of grief within a Jewish holy place

Yahrzeit

I kindle a soul light for thee on this eve,
when dawn awakens, I'll be able to see
a shadow of thy face ere mine eyes
as was before and shall always be.

Each morn I gather me to this place,
wherein I've heard it said G-d resides.
I search but Him I have not seen
His face as from Moshe He hides.

A gray beard weeps over an ancient folio bent,
in whom there yet burns the holy flame.
"Why art thou here too, Rebbe?" I ask.
"My reason like yours is the same."

"A lifetime ago I've forsaken him not,
Like you I won't let his memory to fade,
I'm here to assuage a young father's pain
Lest aloneness make him afraid."

By Alan D. Busch

11/6/10

Where authors and readers come together!

"When A Father Loses A Daughter", revision of what used to be entitled "Loss and Gain"


He took one life but gave back two …

How flows the divine arithmetic I cannot sum.

When his daughter’s death leaves her father benumb,

Such are His mysteries none too few.


Crushing broad shoulders oh bitterest shame …

yet summons his strength to pray a father’s grief.

He awakens from nightmares as if a falling leaf …

ere long were sent him twin miracles came.


He taketh yet giveth back to this, His world.

Hold them fast ‘til you’ve strength no more … l

est their souls forever depart toward eternity soar.

Blanket them with tenderness gently unfurled.


He sits as if for a portrait and every day weeps …

while recalling yesterday’s laughter now mute.

Nary a faint echo of her schoolgirl’s flute,

that he plays for her, in his memory keeps.


Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

As always, thank you for your on-going readership. I think this will be the final form of "Reckoning" that will appear as the the second or third chapter in my book, tentatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons ...



“Reckoning”

“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well today. To see him lying in his disheveled sickbed is a disturbing sight. I spotted his “talis” (which was really his favorite sweater) crumpled into a ball and jammed in between the headboard and mattress. He wriggles uncomfortably atop his bedcovers. His head is scrunched up against four pillows, his frighteningly thin legs poke through the nearly threadbare ends of the same pajama pants he has worn for the past several days. A robust, barrel-chested golden glove pugilist in his youth, my father was someone you’d want to have on your side in a fight.

“Do you remember thinking I was going to die that morning?” I nodded.“Well Son, I wasn’t ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added emphatically “the thought never entered my head.” I’d always admired but feared my father’s toughness.“Dad, when I first saw you laid out on that gurney I was stunned and scared.”I swallowed hard. “Your skin was yellow, you were feverish and the diarrheafrom your “chemo” was unrelenting.

”Talk of death did not disturb Dad who spoke of it with the surety and dispassion of a man who had already squared his account with his Maker. He grimaced.“Dad, are you all right?” He didn’t hear so well any more. “Pain in your gut, Dad?” “Some yes,” he winced. “It’s been coming more frequently so I took a couple of Vicodin.”Dad often complained about how cold he felt during his two year battle against colon cancer. Even after I had covered him with as many as six blankets, it was never quite enough. Only that “talis” could took the edge off.“Dad, what kind of pain is it?” “It feels sore. You know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green apples.”

I didn’t believe one word though I understood what he was doing. Dad was being a dad, he thought, for my sake. As a matter of fact, his condition had worsened to the point that the short walks we had enjoyed taking as recently as the week before were no longer possible.

Leaving him on Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbat, filled me with separation anxiety. He became reflective with the approach of sundown, more so than at any other time of the week. Maybe he acquired his neshuma yeseira, the additional Sabbath soul, before anyone else. “You know I was thinking back when you were a baby,” his face brightened momentarily. “Did you know you were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened. I’ll miss this tender part of him most, I think. “No, I didn’t,” I managed to respond albeit untruthfully. I had heard the club foot story many times, but each time was, at least for Dad, as if it were his first.“And I used to turn your foot and turn your foot, again and again, like this,” he showed me, tearfully twisting his hands as if disconnecting two rusty garden hoses.

“What time do you have, Son?” Dad asked, reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.“4:45,” I exhaled from utter exhaustion.“4.45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late,” he cautioned. “Have a Good Shabbos”.“Hmm, he hadn’t ever said that before. Dad, I … uh, have a great weekend.”I cringed. “A great weekend? Dad’s dying and that’s the best I can come up with? Have a great weekend?”

Dad respected my beliefs though he may not always have agreed with them, but “Good Shabbos” wasn’t part of his world. I was left wondering why and why now.Dad taught me an invaluable lesson from years before when I was a newcomer to the observant community. We had been chatting on the phone for several minutes when he cheerilyannounced he had bought a new dental chair for his office.“Baruch Hashem,” I responded enthusiastically. In fact, I had been repeating the use of that phrase frequently throughout the course of our conversation. Eager to blend into the community as soon as possible, I didn’t realize (though I was old enough to have known better) that the harder I tried to “sound observant”, the more it became obvious I was “the new kid on theblock”.

“Alan, speak to me in language that I understand, Son!” Dad said, with a firmness I had experienced only two or three times before. I knew exactly what he meant. I had managed toannoy my father, not an easy thing to do.A patient man whose language, even when angry, never crossed the line between “firm”and “rude”, Dad struggled for years when I made the choice to become observant. Neither of ushad been prepared to cope with its disruptive effects upon family. He found it baffling as dideveryone else in my family.

Now fifteen years later, Dad was ready to make shalom. Just as we pray for length of days, so my father experienced his first “Kabbalat Shabbat”when, as it turned out, few in number were his remaining days.

It had been an exhausting afternoon. Dad, sitting up in bed against the headboard, looked sleepy and complained of cold feet. I covered and wrapped them loosely. Something was different todayabout our parting. The stubble of Dad’s unshaven whiskers no longer bothered me as it hadalways before when he kissed me goodbye. I inhaled his scent. Turning the front door knob everso slightly, I looked back to catch him peeking out from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,”I called out, “Good Shabbos.” He smiled.

That tiny moment would remain ours forever.

Avi Mori, my father, my teacher, seemed content in the autumn of his days.

Alan D. Busch

June 24, 2010

Where authors and readers come together!


"Loss and Gain" ... after a daughter leaves, her father struggles to live ... a friend lost his daughter to a freakish traffic accident. Dedicated to Noelle, late daughter of my friend Micky Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang.

He took one life but gave back two,

how flows His divine arithmetic I cannot sum ...

When a daughter’s sudden loss does a father benumb

unfathomable are His mysteries none too few.

Reaped undeservedly he this bitterest shame,

tear drops stream onto lips bespeaking his grief.

A dream became a nightmare’s fallen leaf ...

for him announced an angel twin miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,

enwrap them tightly until you can no more.

though souls depart and will forever soar,

cover them with kindness gently unfurled.

Each night wherein she lies a father comes to weep,

for he no longer hears his ballerina’s tiny laughter, now mute.

preserved long ago on a schoolgirl's recorder flute,

which he plays softly each night until she falls back to sleep.

Alan D. Busch

June 15, 2010

Where authors and readers come together!
Dear Readers, this piece is an edit of a chapter from my book Betweeen Fathers and Sons
The word count is slightly under 400 words which is significant because the full-length chapter is around 2000 words. The object of the reduction was to relay basically the same story but having to make the point quickly and economically.

Kissing Dad’s Nose

by Alan D. Busch

Dad loved ice cream, especially spumoni, even more than a bunch of hot and hungry kids on
an August afternoon. But in the two weeks prior to October 18, 2008, my dad lay dying in his hospice bed. He no longer spoke nor cared to eat or drink. The end seemed tangibly near as if it
should have already happened the moment before. Although his cheery smile was gone, his once
handsome face, now gaunt and frozen, he managed to eke out a tiny smile when I kissed him on
his nose.

I responded to Adela, Dad’s wife, with cold stone silence when she told me the staff
doctor had recommended to her that we discontinue feeding Dad gradually. Truthfully, I wanted to ram that recommendation down his throat. It was fortunate for him he had spoken to Adela an hour before I arrived.

I insisted Dad eat more of the foods he had always liked but which required no chewing: ice
cream, crushed popsicles, pudding and mashed potatoes. Dad ate because he knew I would
never do as the doctor had recommended. At the end of the day, even though I was certain I had done the right thing, there remained something profoundly sad about feeding my father with a
plastic spoon.

G-d does the right thing at the right time. He alone governs in this as in all matters, but
the notion had crept into many heads long before that the end of life was no longer sacred. Shabbos morning. I was “on call” at home when, while getting ready for shul, the phone rang.

“Come down,” Adela urged.

Only a few seconds remained. Dad lay perfectly still with but a whisper of breath left.
Enwrapped snugly from feet to chin, Dad appeared as serene as the quietude of a country
pond at sundown. Leaning over his chest, I inhaled his scent and kissed his nose for the last
time. And though I grasped his hand in mine, he slipped through my fingertips effortlessly.

The deceased Rabbi Nachman appeared in the dream of his student Rava who worried that
his rebbe had suffered terribly while he died. “As little as when you remove a hair from a cup of
milk,” Rabbi Nachman responded, reassuring me that Dad suffered equally as little.

Alan D. Busch
5/28/10
Copyright 2010

Dear Readers,

As we approach Ben's tenth yahrzeit, I am beginning to work on reissuing my first book Snapshots in Memory of Ben with some new material. Here is my proposed preface to the reissue. If any of my readers are interested in reading the book when available, please contact me at alandbusch@aol.com

At Heaven’s Gate

Hear me Ben, to you alone do I whisper,
close your eyes while I silently lullaby sing …
each day reminds me forever of yesterday
when tomorrow’s morn will no smiles bring.

Ben, Ben may I yet find you hiding?
I searched that night as much as I could …
Awaken, Ben, with me from this nightmare,
May G-d crown your life with abundant good.

Oh so longingly have I waited o’er these ten years,
but have now only understood what others see …
That it isn’t I who awaits you so much …
as it is you who’s awaited me.

Just as G-d does not warn man of his final awakening,
and the dawn of next day will not him renew …
Patiently await me Son though I may tarry …
when we’ll walk together barefooted in grassy fields of dew.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

This piece that I hope will serve as the postscript to my second book, tenatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons was published by www.examiner.com under the title "Poetical Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch. Google that title and several direct links will pop up. I would appreciate any written response you may have by posting a brief comment at the end of the examiner piece. See my other two pieces also published by examiner.com: "Losing Ben" and "Kissing Dad's Nose".

Sincerely,
Alan D. Busch

"Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch"

Sturdy Tree of Life, its trunk of broad girth,

A man of strong body, mind and soul,
my father’s real strength lay in his emotional tenderness.
His nature exposed as fiction the notion that “real” men mustn’t cry.
My father could be a tough guy when he needed to be,
but his true nature was that of a gentle soul.
This is the dad I cherish and miss more.

Profusion of leaves from peaking buds bring …

We were blessed when G-d renewed him each day.
His was a favored soul.
His tomorrows became less certain
as yesterday’s clouds caught up with us.

Resplendency burst forth come season’s spring…

A blossom makes us smile.
Its perfumed scent renews our flagging hope.
My father smiled when others frowned.

Turn back to reflections of innocent mirth.

Just as a boy needs his father,
so I cherish the memories of my youthful dad
and keep them as leaves in a sacred book.
Its pages are tear-stained and tissues serve as bookmarks.

I gazed at his beacon once time ago brightly fierce.

The Creator brings on evenings gradually
Just as He causes the brilliance of a man’s smile to fade
as the sunset of his days approaches.

Steadfastly towers o’er broad horizons seen.

His shoulders slumped, his back bent, his height diminished …
his gaze he could no longer cast as far as he had once done.

Fading verdancy from which I needst myself wean,

I mustn’t forget my father’s passing was not tragic,
but appropriately sad.
I am grateful he merited to become a “zakein,”
a man of advanced years and wisdom.

Dusk dimmed his light when fog it once pierced.

The bright, white light of youth became the colorful panoply
at which older, wiser eyes marvel.

Violently tosses this storm a gale,

He lived a healthy life until the very end.
The experience of his illness left us adrift in unfamiliar waters,
but the winds guided us to the end of his horizon.

Cleave tightly to thine anchor’s chain.

My father’s life was in His hands in Whom I had placed my trust
for no man governs in these matters.

Lest the tumultuous sea's calmness feign,

Entrusting man leads to despair and loss of hope.

Steer ship’s rudder toward windward sail.

Let thy trust reside alone in Him from Whom the wind blows.

Gaze the firmament for His infinity unknown

I acknowledge His Majesty by searching His Creation.
Wellness and illness are His province alone.

Accept thy portion with gladness by night and by day.

I am thankful for his eighty-seven years.
May he merit his portion in the world to come.

May faith’s compass guide thee, reap that thou may,

I remain strong because I know before Whom I stand.

Content thyself with what he hath sown.

He left the world a better place than how he first found it.

Where authors and readers come together!


http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben

Dear Friends,

Please click on the above link to read a chapter, "Losing Ben" from my book in progress about my late father, Dr. Albert I. Busch. There will appear soon on the same website (www.examiners.com) , perhaps tonight another piece from my book, tentatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons that will be under the chapter heading of "Kissing Dad's Nose". And as always, should you be favorably inclined or even if you are not, take a moment and leave a message.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!


http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben

hopefully this link will work if the one below does not

A.Busch

Where authors and readers come together!

http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben


Dear Readers, Please click on the above link that'll take you to a chapter from my second book in progress. Please after you read the piece, leave a short comment. Your feedback is very much appreciated.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!
Dear Readers,

The following story will appear in the March edition of Poetica Magazine (poeticamagazine.com) and will appear in my second book in progress under a different title: Kissing Dad's Nose


Struggling To Do the Right Thing

by Alan D. Busch

“It feels sore,” Dad explained. “You know how I felt as a kid when
I had eaten too many green apples.” I didn’t believe a word. The
pain I saw on his face was not that of a child who had eaten too
many green apples but of a man whose cancer had worsened
dramatically over the last several days. Dad was doing what a
dad should do, he thought, for my sake.

Kissing Dad on his nose turned up the corners of his mouth the
tiniest bit. It was all he could manage. Gone his cheery disposition;
his handsome face now gaunt, frozen and expressionless. He no
longer smiled.

This is how he’ll look when he dies, I suppose. I’ve tried
unsuccessfully to block this thought. It is as persistent as it
is painful.

Dad's body was busy shutting itself down. Our every effort to
make him more comfortable served as a bitter reminder he would
not be going home again. Shouldering this emotional burden is
familiar to anyone who has cared for a dying parent in a
hospice.

I monitored Dad’s decline by the waning strength of his handshake.
He had had such powerful hands. No longer able to speak, his
silence spoke to me. There was nothing more to say.
Dad expressed himself … through his eyes. I saw their tiny twinkle.

He was glad I was there.

It was a time of our waiting.

Dad’s appetite, even for ice cream his life-long favorite, declined
precipitously. His refusal to open his mouth didn’t discourage
me from feeding him. There is something profoundly sad about
feeding your father with a spoon. Oftentimes it was enough to wet
his lips.

The High Holidays approached. I struggled to make the right
choice. Should I be in shul or at Dad’s bedside? What if while in shul,
he … I feared the guilt of a poor decision.

“I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha Shana,” I told Ron, my
older brother, who had postponed his flight back home several
times, but could no longer do so.

“If you can’t take care of your father at a time like this, religion isn’t
worth much, is it?” he observed pithily. His face brightened.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother.”
“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, whose eyes had become
misty. I had never seen my brother weep. I guess there is a
first time for everything. I turned aside.
“Hey,” he said, gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck
and shoulders. “Thank you.”

The eve of Yom Ha Din drew near. Who would live? Who
would die? Who would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim?
The awesome uncertainty filled me with dread.
I belong by Dad’s side, I told myself repeatedly, yet felt pulled away
as if I could do more for him by pleading for his life before the Aron
Kodesh. I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We spoke for an hour.
“When my father was dying, I recited Tehilim for him at his bedside
for as much of the day, every day I could,,” he recounted lovingly.

I listened.

Overwhelmed by it all, I just could not bring myself to ask him if he
would have done anything differently had his father been dying on
the eve of Yom Kippur.

I returned to be with Dad still undecided.“Hello Reb Ephraim?”
I called a friend from Dad’s room several hours before Kol Nidre.
“I apologize,” Ephraim began, “but I’ve been so busy with my
mother. She’s eighty-six and is dying from stage four cancer.
“I’ll be staying home with her on Yom Kippur.”
I was thunderstruck. I knew what I had to do.
“Alan, how can I help you? You had a question?”
“I did but you’ve already answered it,” I exclaimed.

“The Aibishter sends messengers to help us make the right
decision,” Rabbi Louis remarked when we spoke after yontif.
I made the right choice at this time of extremity in my father’s life.
Together, we reached more closely to The One Above than either of
us could have done separately.

In the early morning hours, I received the following email:

B"H
Dear Alan,
May you and your father be blessed. There is nothing more that
I can say. You know that. Other than to say that your being there beside your Father at this time is the greatest, most precious, truly G-d-like act you could ever do.
May your Father always be blessed to have nachat (nachas) from you,
I pray for you,
Gita

We made a good team, Dad and I.

I was called to his bedside in the late morning of October 18, 2008.
My wife and I left immediately.
Dad’s end was imminent. Wrapped tightly in clean white
blankets, he had awoken and fallen back asleep several
times. I stood at his bedside. His breathing was unlabored.

A final calm overcame him. We were ready, I suppose.
I looked down into his green eyes to see them close. He appeared
to be smiling, no longer having to bear the pain of having eaten
“too many green apples”.

He suffered no apparent distress that Shabbos morning. Though I
held his hand, he slipped through my grasp anyway.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends and Readers,

Thank you for your on-going readership. I am very busy of late with my second book about my late father Dr. Albert I. Busch, Z'L. If you would care to read some preliminary drafts, they are available on line at www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1. Go to the "My Books" section and look for titles like Preface, chapters 1,2,3 and 7 of Between Fathers and Sons. Keep in mind that I have beeen revising quite a bit so what you'll read is not necessarily what is current. But you can get a pretty fair idea in any case. If you want more information, please contact me at alandbusch@aol.com. Please see my other blog at www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!



Struggling To Do the Right Thing
by Alan D. Busch

“It feels sore,” Dad explained. “You know, how I felt as a kid when
I had eaten too many green apples.” I didn’t believe a word. The
pain I saw on his face was not that of a child who had eaten too
many green apples but of a man whose cancer had worsened
dramatically within the last several days. Dad was being a dad. I
understood what he was doing, he thought, for my sake.

Kissing Dad on his nose turned up the corners of his mouth the
tiniest bit. It was all he could manage. Gone his cheery disposition;
his andsome face now gaunt, frozen and expressionless. He no
longer smiled.

This is how he’ll look when he dies, I suppose. I’ve tried unsuccessfully
to block this thought. It is as persistent as it is painful.
Dad’s Dad's body was busy shutting itself down. Our every effort to make
him more comfortable served as a bitter reminder he would
not be going home again. Shouldering this emotional burden is
familiar to anyone who has cared for a dying parent in a
hospice.

I monitored Dad’s decline by the waning strength of his handshake.
He had had such powerful hands. No longer able to speak, his
silence spoke to me. There was nothing more to say.

Dad expressed himself … through his eyes. I saw their tiny twinkle.
He was glad I was there.

It was a time of our waiting.

Dad’s appetite, even for ice cream his life-long favorite, declined
precipitously. His refusal to open his mouth didn’t discourage
me from feeding him. There is something profoundly perverse about
feeding your father with a spoon. Oftentimes it was enough to wet
his lips.

The High Holidays approached. I struggled to make the right
choice.

Should I be in shul or at Dad’s bedside? What if while I’m in shul,
he …


I feared the guilt of a poor decision.

“I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha Shana,” I told Ron, my
older brother, who had postponed his flight back home several
times, but could no longer do so.

“If you can’t take care of your father at a time like this, religion isn’t
worth much, is it?” he observed pithily. His face brightened.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother.”

“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, whose eyes had become
misty. I had never seen my older brother weep. I guess there is a
first time for everything. I turned aside.

“Hey,” he said, gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck
and shoulders. “Thank you.”

The eve of Yom Ha Din drew near. Who would live? Who
would die? Who would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim[1]? I
wrestled with a more intense moral dilemma than the one I had
faced several days earlier. The awesome uncertainty of Yom Kippur
filled me with dread. I knew in my heart where I had to be but felt
compelled to plead for my father’s life before the Aron Kodesh?[2]
I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We spoke for an hour. Though his role was that
of my counselor, Rabbi Louis is my friend. He had cared for his
dying father years before, but I could not bring myself to ask him
what he would have done had his father been dying on the eve of
Yom Kippur. I returned to be with Dad still undecided.

“Hello Reb Ephraim?” I called from Dad’s room several hours
before Kol Nidre.

“I apologize,” Ephraim began, “but I’ve been so busy with my
mother. She’s eighty-six and is dying from stage four cancer.
“I’ll be with her at home on Yom Kippur.”

I was thunderstruck. I knew what I had to do.

“Alan, how can I help you? You had a question?”

“I did but you’ve already answered it.”

“The Aibishter[3] sends messengers to help us make the right
decision,” Rabbi Louis remarked when we spoke after yontif.

I made the right choice at this time of extremity in my father’s life.
Together, we reached closer to The One Above than either of us
could have done separately.

I was called to his bedside in the late morning of October 18, 2008.
My wife and I left immediately.

Dad’s end was imminent. Wrapped tightly in clean white
blankets, he had awoken and fallen back asleep several
times. I stood at his bedside. His breathing was unlabored.
A final calm overcame him. We were ready, I suppose.

I looked down into his green eyes to see them close. He appeared to
be smiling, no longer having to bear the pain of having eaten
“too many green apples”.

He suffered no apparent distress that Shabbos morning,.
Though I held his hand, he slipped through my grasp anyway.

Alan D. Busch
revised 1/20/10
chapter from my manuscript










[1] Hebrew; The Book of Life
[2] The Holy Ark
[3]