Of the 37 grandkids, 34 were able to attend her funeral, coming from as far as Japan (Nathan) and the east coast (several). This is a tribute to a grandmother who made each grandkid feel like they were her favorite. I love her - very much and miss her; but recognize that she is now able to be with her own mother and father and siblings -- who she has missed for much longer.
My dad wrote her obituary and John Paxman, a lifelong friend, modified one of his poems, which I cannot read without crying:
Felucca at Maadi
Along the Nile’s corniche, royal purple
jacaranda and flame red acacia petals
winnow down, flake the late May river path,
swirl and fluff about the ankles of the early
evening strollers, part like sparrows fluttering
to seed or crumb.
None come underfoot.
Along the river, we move north in a felucca,
rhythmed about by music tinning from black-dog
whuffer boxes on the shore. The west-leaning
breeze spreads itself flat across the water.
Cotton threads of clouds above struggle to compose
themselves into the calligraphy of a loose Arabic script.
Read from the right, like texts inside those whirling
mosaic illuminations on a Koran’s page, it asks:
“And who will explain this steep path to you?”
The bland wind billows the sail edge into a
left-handed crescent, a cloth trace of the waxed
early moon above. On coming about, the angle
line wavers, the wind lufts and teases the charity
of its blue border.
It whaps like a wet sheet hung to stop a Utah
canyon breeze near Wildwood, after noon,
when the air reverses on itself, valley bound along
the river, running to timidly kiss the cheek of
the rising desert heat of the plains below.
The diminishing Akhenaten sun gilds a path
on the river, as thin and golden as the leaf on
Tutankhamun’s masks. It lays the way to sail
straight to those triangles at Giza, where Cheop’s
barge awaits, earth-bound, to companion us
into the after.
We can keep on sailing with Ruth for eternity.
Asalaam aleikum
-- Cairo, May 2002
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