The sun was setting and Rivka looked out the window at the different colours on the horizon, but to her it was all muted. She reluctantly looked at the shiva candle that she set on the table wondering what to do next.

Slowly she mumbled a prayer that the rabbi recommended:

L-rd of spirit and flesh, we have turned to You for comfort in these days of grief.

When the cup of sorrow passed into our hands, your presence consoled us. Now we rise up to face the tasks of life once more. There will be moments of woe and hours of loneliness, for a loved one has passed from our sight.

In our times of weakness may her (his) memory strengthen our spirit.

Teach us, O G-d, to give thanks for all that was deathless in the life of our dear companion and friend, and which now is revealed to us in all its beauty.

Be our support when our own strength fails us.

For the love that death cannot sever; for the friendship we shared along life’s path; for those gifts of heart and mind which now become a precious heritage; for all these and more, we are grateful.

Now help us L-rd, not to dwell on sorrow and pain, but to honor our beloved by the quality of our lives.

Gray light entered through the faded curtains of the wooden house as Rivka slowly got up. Sadly, she looked at the empty bed beside her –  Yosef Simcha was gone.

She put on her warm robe, and then passed by the yahrzeit candle still burning from the night before on the dining room table next to Yosef Simcha’s siddur and tefillin. The flame gave off such a cold light in the small glass. The rabbi had said she could let the candle burn out by itself. Rivka felt like she was as burnt out as the candle.

Slowly she made her way to the kitchen and set a kettle up to boil on the stove. A nice cup of instant coffee like she used only on Shabbos was fine for every day now. Nothing tasted good these days, not even coffee.

Yesterday, shiva over, the rabbi had said, “It’s time for you to go out.” Time was so unforgiving; Rivka was not ready. Especially not ready to see her face in the mirror: her hair grayer, the skin underneath her green eyes darker, face color nonexistent.

Today being Friday, she had to buy food for Shabbos. That’s if she wanted to eat. Rivka forced herself to eat a boiled egg and bagel after the funeral. Then everyone else could eat. For the next few days, she’d eaten to keep up her strength for the visitors.

Today, coffee was all she wanted. Then Rivka put on her black raincoat with a hood. It was only last year Yosef Simcha had said, “Great—a hood, in case of rain.” He put down the paper to admire Rivka as she showed off her new raincoat.

Rivka wondered, had he started to look pale then?

Pulling the hood over her head, Rivka forced herself out the door. Once outside, she was not sure if raindrops or tears were sliding down her cheeks.

No need to get eggless challahs, fresh fish and vegetables which was all Yosef Simcha could eat after his heart surgery. The rain matched Rivka’s mood as she walked up the street, busy with other shoppers scurrying to get what they needed for Shabbos.

she took off her hood and grabbed a small cart as she entered the market. As soon as she entered the first aisle, someone shoved into her with a large wagon.

“Pardon me,” Rivka said, then turned to see Shira, Yosef Simcha’s first wife, surrounded by potatoes, onions and carrots.

Shira whined, “You could at least say hello.”

“Hello.” Picking up some celery, Rivka smelled them. They reminded her of spring, and fresh air, and her mother’s chicken soup bubbling on the stove before Shabbos.

Since Shira had not shown up for the funeral, Rivka hadn’t minded the twin boys standing together, yet apart from everyone else at the graveside. They stood by as Yosef Simcha was lowered into the ground, then escaped without saying a word to Rivka.

How she wished they had said some word of kindness, or an acknowledgment that Rivka existed. How she wished they acted like Yosef Simcha, not just looked like him.

Was it her fault, what happened between Yosef Simcha and Shira? Rivka never really wanted to know. She had such wonderful memories of her husband.

It was still painful that she and Yosef Simcha had no children. No one to whom she could pass on his precious siddur and tefillin. No one to help her through the mourning process.

 “I didn’t come to the funeral, because I thought it would bother you.” Shira flung her thick finger, adorned with a huge flashy diamond, into Rivka’s face. “I’m happy now, as you can see.”

Happy was not a word Rivka could even imagine using now. Looking down at her own tastefully small ring, she never would have worn such a flashy piece of jewelry.

Cart filled with chicken and other special food, Shira said, “I told my boys to go, out of respect for their father.”

“It would also have been respectful if they paid their condolences to me.”

“They never forgave their father for abandoning them.”

Abandoning them! After all the weekends we invited the boys and Shira had said no. Shira had no case.

Yosef Simcha was heartbroken so many times, Rivka suspected it added to his strain.

She bought candles to bring in Shabbos by herself.

Thinking about which kind of frozen dinner she should buy, Rivka heard Shira brag about her ring to someone else.

When would Rivka be happy? She pictured her mother lighting candles, white lace scarf covering her head, small hands circling the warm orange flames reflecting off her round face.

Rivka ran around the store, buying chicken, onions and spices, her mother’s secret ingredients to add to the celery hearts and carrots for soup. Smelling the aroma while the soup was bubbling will make a sweet Shabbos.

Looking out the large window, the sun inched out through the clouds, as if it forgave them.

She noticed Shira by the checkout counter. Maybe Rivka should forgive Shira for all her bad behavior. “After all,” the rabbi had said, “not forgiving someone is bad for your heart.”

She stepped over to Susan and said, “A gut’n Shabbos to you and your family.”

Rivka left the store with a heart that felt less heavy. Tonight, when lighting the candles, she would thank G-d for all she had.

May all your tales end with Shalom (peace)

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