An Empty Seat At The Seder

By: Larry Gordon

I’ve written a lot about my brother Binyomin and the fact that he passed away almost a half year ago. It was just a few days after Sukkos, after we had celebrated a beautiful and long yom tov in Jerusalem with a big part of the family.

He had not been well for months after they discovered a type of non-smoker’s lung cancer. He was in a clinical trial program at NYU Langone and for a while the doctors were confident that they could effectively treat his illness. But then there were complications like pneumonia, which prevented him from being treated for long periods of time. This is what apparently facilitated the spread of the cancer.

We had scheduled to stay in Israel for a few extra days after the yom tov long before he took ill, and at that point the reports I was getting from New York were not encouraging. It was a sad and difficult time for all of us.

Finally, the night before our flight back home, we were in a restaurant in Jerusalem when the name of one of my nephews popped up on my phone. I answered the call and all he had to say was: Baruch dayan emes. It was the end of an era.

Just prior to his illness, we had spent several winters together in Boca Raton, and he and my sister-in-law, Sandy, bought a place near us in Boynton Beach. In fact, it’s a few days before Pesach, and as I write these words, I can see their home across the lake where he planned to spend this winter season.

You know how it goes—Der mensch tracht un G-t lacht. Translated from Yiddish it means that a man can make all sorts of intricate and laborious plans but Hashem just laughs them off.

I’m sitting here looking across the water at that house and thinking how nice and even perfect this winter could have been had he not left us. But that was just not meant to be.

The current in that lake behind our homes is gently flowing from left to right. There are ducks and geese either floating or just going with the current. The grass is a lush green and far off to my right as well as to my left I can hear birds chirping, some louder, some lower.

Even though Binyomin was dealing with a difficult illness, he bought that house as a gesture of confidence that he would overcome and beat this thing and that he would happily spend the winter down here together with us. I was also confident that his treatments would work and we would be able to sit out here together watching the sun set, reflecting on what he was able to overcome with Hashem’s help.

Binyomin was born on the sixth of Nisan. Last week would have been his 80th birthday. I know he was my older brother, my parents’ first born who, upon entering this world, made my grandparents on both sides into just that—grandparents.

When I was young, I thought they were always that: bubbies and zaides. And I never really considered that there was a time when they were not. But that is what Binyomin managed to accomplish with his birth. He turned them into bubbies and zaides.

I don’t know how deep the lake is behind my house and I never saw anyone swimming there. I see people fishing there and if they catch anything it’s usually very small fish. I think the point here is that I could probably swim across that lake in ten strokes or less and be on the other side soaking wet, but right outside the back part of Binyomin and Sandy’s Florida house in less than a minute.

A few weeks ago, the home was sold and the reality is that neither Binyomin nor Sandy ever stepped foot into that house. He saw the home advertised online and went ahead and boldly bought it.

In all these decades that Esta and I have been married, I can recall mostly the Pesach Sedarim of my childhood in my parents’ home. Those were good, meaningful, and even fun times. There was one Pesach probably about ten years ago when we were home and decided to have one Seder in our home and then we went to Binyomin and Sandy’s home in Lawrence for the second Seder.

It was a new experience for us. I think we still had two kids who were young adults but not yet married and they of course joined us. It was an enjoyable experience and in a sense an opportunity to relive and talk about the things our father used to talk about at those long ago Seders. We finished late at night, but since we lived less than a mile from them, we walked home afterward after spending a nice evening that left us with wonderful memories to tap into in the future.

At those Sedarim, of course my dad sat at the head of the table and led the discussion of the Haggadah. After he passed away at the end of 1989, I don’t think there was ever a Seder in that house again even though my mom lived there for an additional 27 years. That long dining room table was where my mom lit candles every Shabbos and yom tov. As far as I can recall, the candles just sat there even on yom tov, when it was possible to move them.

After that year, my mom came to one of our homes for Pesach, though it was usually in the home of my sister and brother-in-law, Peshe and Abe. When it came to Shabbos, the four of us usually rotated going to my mom’s house for Shabbos. I recall that first Shabbos that I was there after my dad’s petirah and I was not sure whether I should sit at the at the head of the table or leave his chair empty and move to the side where I’d usually sit.

It was a reflex action, but I decided to sit at the head of the table where I’d make Kiddush, then cut the challah, and partake of the seudah there. I thought it would be too emotional for my mom if there was an empty seat at the head of the table. So, I sat there and thought to myself that I was also communicating the idea that the living must go on living, that is Hashem’s will, and we have no option but to move forward.

I know there is a great world out there beyond this one and there might even be a Seder there, just on a higher level. It’s difficult to grasp, but something to utilize our imagination and faith to try to understand.

In the meantime, there are the memories. Great and beautiful and oh so very happy memories. 

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