Fatherhood
“We had not been close, or even very much in communication, since the day my mother left him. Over the years, the many years, my anger with him had not abated. But in his final days, I’d decided to offer him at least an occasion for atonement, despite the fact that he’d never given any indication that he had anything for which he felt the need to atone. At times I’d even felt my presence in his hospital room reduced to that of a Shabbas goy, performing servile tasks like turning on a light or ad...justing the volume on the television that hung opposite his bed.
“I’m a rabbi,” I reminded him sternly one afternoon when my lowly status in his eyes became particularly irksome.
“So was I,” my father said. “Almost.”
Almost? I didn’t think so. For although he’d been a rabbinical student in his youth, he’d later chosen Columbia over Yeshiva, and from there gone on to the life of a liberal arts professor, complete with pipe, tweed jacket, and, as I’d been told, an occasional mention in scholarly magazines.MoreLess
“I’m a rabbi,” I reminded him sternly one afternoon when my lowly status in his eyes became particularly irksome.
“So was I,” my father said. “Almost.”
Almost? I didn’t think so. For although he’d been a rabbinical student in his youth, he’d later chosen Columbia over Yeshiva, and from there gone on to the life of a liberal arts professor, complete with pipe, tweed jacket, and, as I’d been told, an occasional mention in scholarly magazines.MoreLess
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