Ruminations upon Thursday May 8, 2025 in Osaka, Japan
After two exhilarating, long days and a terrifying incident on the train that almost resulted in losing a child, we planned a relaxed and relatively easy morning – the only goals included sleeping in and completing some light schoolwork. But this was one of those “humans plan, God laughs” kind of days. In the middle of our leisurely morning, I received an earth-shattering text from a fellow parent back home.
Hi! How are you? I’m not sure where you guys are in the world but did you hear the horrific news, I’m pretty sure your son was friends with AK right?
Followed by a snapshot of what a very close friend of mine shared on Facebook – a space my husband never frequents, and that I check sporadically a few times a year.
I was devastated. A dear friend of mine, a school faculty member whose children are close with mine, lost her two-year-old daughter in one of those freak accidents I always thought of as tragic news stories far from my bubble.
For the second time in less than six months, we were halfway across the world, and our entire community was thrown into mourning. Everything I had planned to share on our Instagram account about Matanel’s near-death experience the previous day no longer mattered. How could it? My child was alive. Hers was not.
When I read the text, I let out a small gasp. The boys instantly clocked it and asked me what happened. After a few minutes of double-checking information and hearing from a few other friends who wanted to make sure I knew what had happened, I decided it was important to share the news with our boys. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I reminded myself that they were strong and this is what it means to live – we love, we lose, we grieve, we remember, we celebrate.
After I told them what happened and their disbelief wore off, we cried and the questions started coming.
How?
When?
Where?
Why?
I didn’t have answers. Our conversation turned toward Jewish ritual and what happens when someone dies. We talked about what happens at a funeral, the Jewish practice of sitting shiva – a seven-day period of mourning when we visit the mourner and listen to and share our own memories of their loved one. We talked about the injustice of it all. How hard it was to be so far away.
We cried again. Then we began honoring SK’s memory. The boys always loved playing with her when we were with her. Eitan, in particular, viewed her like a little sister. I have vivid memories of him holding her when she was just a few months old. He was so proud of himself and so enamored with the little being in his lap. Her death hit him hardest.
After an hour, the air in the house felt oppressive. Almost like our grief was disturbing the light and airy atmosphere created by our house’s Japanese architecture. I needed fresh air. The boys had no interest in leaving, so I did what any desperate parent does in a moment like this. I bribed them with Dr. Pepper from the vending machines that littered the streets all around us.
Once we were up and out, we walked the parts of the Kuromon Market we hadn’t seen. After passing several slot machine stores – the only legal form of gambling in Japan – the boys begged me to let them spend money at one of the many claw machine stores where you put money in a machine and try to maneuver a claw to win a prize. The stores in Japan have tons of different kinds of claw machines from which to choose. It was the kid version of the slot machines. I had no desire to spend money on this sort of thing, but I liked the idea that this was an aspect of Japanese culture the boys could fully experience. As I was mulling it over, Eitan wondered aloud if it was appropriate to have fun when someone just died. That did it. After everything we’d experienced in the last eighteen hours, it was important to remember that it was okay to have fun.
Each of the boys got two turns on the machine of their choice. The boys were shocked when they realized they had spent 1000 ¥ in under five minutes. Everyone agreed it was wise to leave before they blew through funds. The experience turned into several important lessons:
We can grieve and still find joy
We can play games and know how to walk away
Games of chance can quickly lead to addictive behaviors for some people.
When we got back from the market, I needed to run out again to get food for dinner. While I was gone, the older boys decided to lead an early Mother’s Day card-making activity. They came up with it completely on their own. When I returned, they handed me their cards – immensely proud that they were able to surprise me. There were ribbons declaring me “#1 Mom,” “Happy Early Mother’s Day” written across the bottom, a cobra, and a smiling monster with fire for hair, Frankenstein ears, and a chainsaw for a hand.
There was something surreal about it. We had spent the day grieving the loss of a child, and my children were making Mother’s Day cards for me.
We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening packing up our belongings. We were heading to Kyoto for a day before returning to Kobe for Shabbat. While packing, Amichai shared that he wasn’t ready to move on. I think he enjoyed the ease of transportation, and the independence of being able to run to the grocery store on his own. Or maybe it was because he finally had his own bedroom.
After everyone had gone to bed, Eitan called out. He had been holding himself together the whole day and was finally ready to let all of his emotions go. We spent the next hour together, with him shrieking into his pillow, asking questions I could not answer, and grieving hard until his little body was so exhausted he finally fell asleep. As a parent, I was heartbroken watching my son know this kind of grief so deeply at such a young age. All I could do was offer to hold him. So I did.
