2026~ Living in Two Worlds



A new year has begun. It started as an unseasonably chilly one here in south Florida, which characteristically annoyed the residents; quite a few ladies even complained that their furs (from the last century) were still up in NY. Luckily, we didn’t have to endure any of the weather up north and lately we have had gorgeous, cloudless days with temperatures up in the 80s and no humidity. 

I’ve been hearing birds chirping more than usual now. It sounds like the birds of spring who are returning to their home. Their sound fills me with some comfort, maybe because birds always remind me of my maternal grandmother.

This time of year also reminds me of my grandma, Fannie, who lived with my family until her death when I was almost 16. That was exactly one day and 54 years ago. She was 89 and never lost her sense of humor. As a matter of fact, the day the EMTs from the ambulance wheeled her out the door to take her to the hospital, we all went over to her to ask her if she was okay, she responded as if telling a joke, “Of course I’m okay, I’m going to Florida.” She always had the ability to make us laugh even in the worst of times.

New Year’s day was always a day we celebrated Grandma because every New Year’s Day my mother would throw her a huge birthday party. They didn’t know for sure if January 1st was her actual birthdate because there was no birth certificate, but something led them to believe it was. Those birthday parties would have made iconic scenes in a screenplay. My mother's family, consisting of visual and performing artists, would converge in a cacophony of music, arguments that would be talked about for years, a palpable competitiveness among my six uncles and 14 cousins, and laughter, so much laughter, but most of all, love. 

It all was supposed to be centered around my grandmother, the women who was responsible for these eight children and lived to see 18 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. It was supposed to be, but really wasn’t, about her. She just sat quietly, observing this amazing family that she created with the love of her life, my grandpa, whom I never met because he died before I was born. Although, I am sure, to this day, that I knew him from all the stories that were told over and over again, especially on the annual Waltzer New Year’s Day/Fannie’s Birthday Party. 

Grandma Fannie once told me something I think about often now as I get closer to entering my seventh decade. She said that no matter what age you are, even when you are an old woman, you will always feel like the young girl you were as a teenager. Your body changes, but you will always be that young girl inside. I know what she means now, and she was right. It’s still me, inside, the young girl who fell in love with the young man who reminded her of a teddy bear, the young girl inside who wants to just throw her arms around him and hug him, but he is no longer here. I think Mark used to see the "younger version" of me even as I aged because when he looked at me, it was the same way he looked at me when I was young. I believe my grandma still felt as the young girl at all those parties, while her grown children reminisced. I believe she was yearning to hold her handsome, blue-eyed Morris in her arms again. 

That was a true love story, the one of Morris and Fannie. They both lived in Eastern Europe; she worked for his uncle as a cook, or maybe a housekeeper who also cooked. One day he took his horse and buggy to go see his uncle and when he saw Fannie, with her auburn tresses, he was instantly smitten. He thought she was the most beautiful girl he ever saw. He returned every night to visit her and many nights he fell asleep in the buggy as the horse took him back to his home because the trail was so familiar.

And as the story goes, it might not have happened like this, but it is my version of the truth, (which I hope one of my cousins- Andrea, Regina, Garie, Kenny, or Neil will correct), Morris decided to go to America and he told Fannie as soon as he gets the money, he will send for her. And she waited….and waited…and waited, until, she said, I’m just going to America by myself.  She was maybe 20 or 21, didn’t speak English, never learned to read or write, but she packed her mother’s brass shabbat candlesticks, and I’m assuming some clothes and a toothbrush, said goodbye to her mother whom she never saw again, and went on a ship, either by herself or maybe with a cousin, to America. (My daughter, Lindsay, went to another state 10 hours away and made me sell my house in Long Island to go live near her in North Carolina but her great grandmother went across the ocean and said goodbye to her mother forever. Now that’s a difference in generations!)

When Morris found out Fannie was in America, he immediately went to find her. I don’t know how he found out that she was there or where she was, maybe it was his horse, (that was a smart horse), that found her. You’re probably wondering how the horse got to America. That, I couldn’t tell you. 

And as all love stories go, Morris and Fannie lived happily ever after. They would even still hold hands when they walked together and sat together, as I’m told. But all love stories end when one of the lovers dies and that happened in 1953 when Morris died a few months after his youngest child, my mom, got married (just like Mark died a few months after Kimmy got married). My grandma was around 70, a little older than me, when she became a widow. I wonder, now,  if she just sat quietly at all those New Year’s/Fannie’s Birthday parties my mother threw, because she was thinking of my grandpa, and missing him. I bet she was.

Recently I told my therapist that I feel like I’m alone even if there are a thousand people in the room, or if I’m “with” people. She responded with the following quote:

“When you are grieving, you are forced to live in two worlds–– one where the person is gone and one where people are here.”

I realize, my grandma must have been living in two worlds, just like I am now.  And that’s why I constantly feel like I’m alone, because as long as Mark is gone, I am, whether other people are here or I'm by myself. And that, my friends, is the most painful truth of all.