In a previous post, I mention that it is a Jewish tradition for Jews to bury their own; instead of a light truck filled with dirt that comes to the grave after all the prayers are said, a pile of earth and a shovel sit graveside. I know about this tradition because of
Ari.
This is 18 year-old me with my neighbor, Ari Grashin. The Grashin family moved next door to my parents when I was 11 years old, and the four boys and I spent a lot of time together. Over the years, the boys became like my brothers; I helped them with homework, cut their hair, sewed on their stray buttons, answered questions about why girls are so weird in 8th grade, and generally loved them a lot. Ari was the second youngest, and when he was 16 he was diagnosed with brain cancer. He had surgery to remove the tumor, and started chemo shortly after. To avoid the annoyance of shedding, Ari asked me to shave his head. There was an unspoken agreement among his brothers and friends to shave their heads too, and the haircutting night turned into quite a party. People just kept showing up until there was standing-room only, and when it looked like everyone was there, we started the head shaving. Ari went first, followed by his brothers and several friends. I went last.
I didn't know it at the time, but this is the last picture I would ever be in with Ari. He died peacefully at home with his family, just as the sun rose on a brilliant September morning. He could not longer speak, and for the past few days had been answering yes-or-no questions with a squeeze of the hand. His parents knew their third son wouldn't be with them much longer, and asked if he was afraid. He squeezed his mother's hand, once for "no." His oldest brother Mayer chanted the Jewish prayers of Confession for Ari, and shortly after, Ari closed his eyes.
I always think of Ari in October; his birthday was October 10. Seventeen days after his death he would have been 17. It has been one of my life's great disappointments that the world missed out on what Ari would have done with the rest of his life, given the chance.
This is 18 year-old me with my neighbor, Ari Grashin. The Grashin family moved next door to my parents when I was 11 years old, and the four boys and I spent a lot of time together. Over the years, the boys became like my brothers; I helped them with homework, cut their hair, sewed on their stray buttons, answered questions about why girls are so weird in 8th grade, and generally loved them a lot. Ari was the second youngest, and when he was 16 he was diagnosed with brain cancer. He had surgery to remove the tumor, and started chemo shortly after. To avoid the annoyance of shedding, Ari asked me to shave his head. There was an unspoken agreement among his brothers and friends to shave their heads too, and the haircutting night turned into quite a party. People just kept showing up until there was standing-room only, and when it looked like everyone was there, we started the head shaving. Ari went first, followed by his brothers and several friends. I went last.
I didn't know it at the time, but this is the last picture I would ever be in with Ari. He died peacefully at home with his family, just as the sun rose on a brilliant September morning. He could not longer speak, and for the past few days had been answering yes-or-no questions with a squeeze of the hand. His parents knew their third son wouldn't be with them much longer, and asked if he was afraid. He squeezed his mother's hand, once for "no." His oldest brother Mayer chanted the Jewish prayers of Confession for Ari, and shortly after, Ari closed his eyes.
I always think of Ari in October; his birthday was October 10. Seventeen days after his death he would have been 17. It has been one of my life's great disappointments that the world missed out on what Ari would have done with the rest of his life, given the chance.
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