On stones

Of the stones I retrieved from my father’s gravesite, I kept seven.

(I retrieved many more than seven and tried to foist some stones on other members of my family; they seemed lukewarm about it, but some of them humoured me and took a few stones. I also ensured that a few shovelfuls of sand, the underlayer beneath the pine forest’s topsoil filled with fine sparkling crystals, was placed in a reusable shopping bag, of which I kept one small jar-full that had to be tested by the TSA before I could fly out of Boston.)

One of these stones will be thrown in the sea for tashlich. What I normally do is carry around a hagstone all year, throw it into the sea on or shortly after Rosh HaShanah, then search the pebbles for another hagstone to carry with me for the next year. This year, my hagstone was lowered down on top of the woven casket, so I will instead throw one of the stones I took back with me. It was difficult to choose one but I settled on one of the quartzes, perhaps slightly less remarkable than the others but compelling in its own way, which in however many dozens of years will look beautiful having been tumbled beneath the waves. I’ll then pick up a hagstone to take over for his memorial service.

Another of these stones – the first I saw, which prompted me to begin picking stones from the sand as we were shovelling it back over the casket – is the one I hold every night when I say kaddish with the online minyan. It’s an American minyan, so the timings are awkward, but not as awkward as some I’ve come across, and in any case it’s the only daily kaddish minyan which works with my schedule. But one of the participating rabbis always strums a guitar when saying the bracha for studying Torah, which reminds me of a youth pastor and makes me cringe. Nice guy though. (And my camera’s off so he can’t see me cringe.)

I hold this stone as the Zoom meeting starts, feel it slowly warm up as the rabbis speak, squeeze it in my palm as I say kaddish and, after I’ve left the meeting, press the warm stone into my cheek. I used to think to myself, I’ll put the stone down as soon as it starts cooling down, realising that as I held it to my cheek it wouldn’t actually significantly cool down and I’d have to make the decision to put it down. Lately, though, when I put this stone against my cheek having held it tight in my hand for about a quarter of an hour, I think, It doesn’t feel warm enough. Did I hold it tightly enough? How can I get it warmer?

I’ve decided to try and fly over for his yahrzeit next summer, and put this stone on his grave. I’m the only one saying kaddish for him, so I hope he can somehow feel, stored in this stone, eleven months’ worth of prayer. I have great faith in the memory of stones. In the probing curiosity of trees, who encircle the grave and whose roots snake through the sand beside it. Even if the energy I convey to the stone merely gets grounded in the Earth, or slurped up by those trees, it will perhaps be enough.

I’ll be left with some sand and five stones. Not sure what I’ll do with them. Maybe every once in a while I’ll take one, clasp it tightly between two palms, and try to warm it for a few minutes. That warmth, my care, those stones, are all that remain. בָּרוּךְ דַּיַּן הָאֱמֶת