When there’s nothing to say

I need to call her, but I have nothing to say.

It’s hard to believe it’s the same cousin that just four weeks ago, while visiting in NY, I bumped into while walking down the street and stood in the frigid NY weather catching up on two years of happenings. Babies, jobs, kids, stuff. There was so much to talk about, we could have stood there all day.

I saw her again the next week, together with lots of other cousins, and we all had plenty to share; cousins always have what to talk about.

And now, I have nothing to say.

I need to call her. My dear cousin, a few years younger than me, a beautiful mother of four and a dedicated wife, lost her equally young and beautiful husband.

He passed away suddenly, without any warning.

It’s tragic, it’s awful, it’s horrible.

It’s heartbreaking.

Small children without a father and a wife without her husband.

How oh how can such a thing happen?

What can I tell her?

I wish I can be there in person, but I am not able to get to New York this week.

I need to call her, but what can I tell her?

I can tell her nothing. But I need to call her anyway.

There are so many things I want to say.

I want to tell her this is all wrong.

I want to tell her this world is a crazy mess and we are all crying with her.

I want to tell her that I have not stopped thinking about her since the moment this happened.

I want to tell her my heart is shattered in pieces for her.

I want to tell her 30 year old tattys don’t pass away. This has to be a mistake.

But I won’t say any of that.

Because truthfully, there is nothing to say.

How can such a young husband, father, son and brother be taken away so suddenly?

How can his dear wife carry the pain?

I remember soon after they were married her and her husband joined us for Shabbos lunch.  I was the older cousin, married already for 3 years, and I was still living in New York.

Her husband Nadiv walked in and immediately picked up my 6 month old baby and wouldn’t put her down, something not so characteristic for a guy his age! And when she fell asleep, he insisted on continuing to hold her. And he didn’t put her down until he left.

He loved babies. He loved kids. He loved people and he loved life.

I have to call her.

To tell her everything by saying nothing.

I don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We’re not supposed to. But sometimes I really wish I did.