Empty Rocking Chair

It is eleven years to the day of my beautiful mother’s passing. There is so much I wanted to share with her but did not express. And there is so much in my present life that I wish she could share with me, but sadly she cannot. 

Over the years, I have looked for signs of her, always in nature. I am either blind to her presence or she is not there. So I went on a discovery trip to find her, to another home where she spent much time – her winter home in the jungles of Costa Rica, a big chapter in her life in which I did not partake.

Each December, she and my newly retired father would pack up and leave us in blustery, gray Toronto, en route to their verdant, paradisical villa overlooking Lake Arenal. Over those years, we were busy working and bringing up our four young children. My parents would return each year, revived, tanned, and relaxed, just in time for Pesach. As for us, we were pale, wet rags living vicariously through their tropical adventures.

And so the years went by. We then moved to Israel, a place on the other side of the globe from this Central American country. We just could not find the time to visit. Our children grew older, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and, on November 12, 2014, she passed away.

It is now November, 2025, and I am finally here in my parents’ retreat. I lit a memorial candle for my mother and set it in the living room, watching it flickering in the dark. I opened the patio doors to let in the sounds of the night. In fluttered a gentle breeze and the sounds of the jungle, a harmonious chorus of insects and frogs. Fireflies pressed against the window, tiny lighthouses pulsating in a sea of darkness. I sat back, watched the flame of the candle flicker and said to my mother, “You are here, talk to me.” 

I feel her here. Following me through each room, probably amused that I have grown older and am gray, looking uncannily like her when she was my age. “Yes, Mummy, I am a grandma now. You would be proud of your grandchildren and would love, love, love your great grandchildren.”

I lit my Shabbat candles with her in mind. Yes, here I am, sanctifying the Sabbath, I told her. And then I sat down to one of her favorite pastimes: a good old jigsaw puzzle. I pictured her sitting here in this very room, tackling a large puzzle all alone, in silence and calm. I wished I had the time to sit with her and puzzle when she was alive. I just never found the time to do so. 

A grandmother with gray hair, I sit alone with one of her puzzles. It is calm and quiet. I miss her so.

I sit outside in the morning with a coffee. I am in a rocking chair. She must have sat in this chair with her coffee mug and looked out at the garden with the beautiful lake beyond. I remember her on a winter’s morning in Toronto, coffee in one hand, crossword puzzle in the other, staring out at the bleak, white snow. And yet here, she would look out at tropical flowers, exotic toucans, and aracaris eating fruit from their bird feeders. And I think she would have been on the side of the tiny, delicate birds who are unfairly shooed away by the gorgeous greedy giants.

She is here and she is silent. I am not surprised; she was a quiet person, one who would make an observation, smile knowingly to herself, then rock in her chair, her ankle pirouetting through the air as she thought. Silence.

This place is a mirror of her. Like her, it sighs.  A wind blows through enormous trees clad with moss and epiphytes, and without complaint, the branches bow, sway, and sigh. The sun shines and the rain mists all at once. There is no distinction between the two. All accepting, anything goes: and so with you. 

Sitting here in your chair, I understand the power of silence. This garden feels so isolated from humanity, yet so enveloped by nature. And the longer I sit and listen, those seemingly minor, subtle sounds become audible. They are almost empowering. They breathe me. 

And I remember you and your water colors. Perhaps you sat outside here and dabbed your brush in the water, mixing different hues of green. Save space on your canvas for those pink hibiscus, magenta leaves, or perhaps the incandescent hummingbird that buzzes by. I did not bring my watercolors to transcribe beauty the way you did in your life; instead, I brought my laptop.

And so here I am in your rocking chair. The sun bows low in the sky, focusing its light on those overlooked plants, giving them a moment to be center stage, giving them a chance to radiate their unique beauty. And so did you with all of your heart. You shone and you made space to let others shine. I respect you for this.

I love you. I hear you. I miss you.