Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin by Adam Byrn Tritt
Authors: Adam Byrn Tritt
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grave.
One of the four graveworkers stands aside
so I can help roll the casket out. Even the
grave workers are dressed better than I am.
It’s a long walk from the chapel to the grave,
and it’s August 30 in south Florida in a tree-
less cemetery. I am wearing a black silk shirt,
black linen pants, black suede shoes, and it’s
a loooooong walk to the grave. I don’t remem-
ber what was said at graveside; I know that
Kaddish was said. I know that other prayers
were said. There was a canopy with some
chairs set for people; I stood by the grave the
entire time.
And then the funeral was over. The casket
was ready to be lowered into the grave, which
is done by machine (this is not how most Jew-141
Adam Byrn Tritt
ish funeral go), and I had my hand on the cas-
ket as far down as I could—I’d have preferred
lowering it ropes myself, but that wasn’t avail-
able; I think we definitely lose something by
having all this stuff mechanized. We were
given little plastic baggies of dirt, about the
size of two ketchup packets, to throw on to
the casket. I wanted a shovel and a pile of dirt, and what I got were tiny baggies. I wanted to
bury her and all I could throw in was a tea-
spoon of dirt, so I grabbed all that I could
find—it didn’t matter if anyone else had any.
We were then told that it was time to leave,
because it was time to bring in the backhoe
to load in the concrete that would be lowered
halfway down the condo so it would be cov-
ering my mother’s casket. The canopy had to
go. The plywood on which the seats sat had
to be moved so the backhoe wouldn’t eat up
the grass.
And I told them: “No.” Very matter of fact.
No. I was going to help, until it was com-
pletely sealed. I told the rabbi, “I don’t get a shovel, I don’t get any dirt, but I’m going to
damn well see this thing sealed.” He said he
understood.
142
Yahrzeit
The first piece of concrete had a bolt hole
in each corner. Large eyes were screwed into
each, chains attached to those, the four chains
attached to a hook on the backhoe. It was
picked up moved, positioned, lowered. And
I stood there, a little too close for safety, until I could catch the last glimpse of the coffin as
the slab covered it. Then one of the workers
had to jump in and unscrew the bolts and
take the chains off. Lee wisely kept me from
doing that; I was very bothered by someone
I didn’t know jumping into my mother’s
grave, silly me.
Then came the second concrete slab to
cover the top half of the two-story grave.
Same process. I helped unscrew the bolts and
take off the chains, since this was just below
ground level and I could reach it. Then the
same process for the marble grave top. It’s
positioned into place with my hand on it. I
helped take off the chains, unscrew the eyes.
And then the workers come over with a bolt
and a large brass washer, and that is screwed
on, attaching it to the concrete grave box.
I said to one of the workers, “Mind if I do
that?”
143
Adam Byrn Tritt
And he says, “You’re not supposed to.”
And I said to him, an older black fellow, “If
this was your mom, and you had no shovel
and no dirt, what would you do?”
He said, “I would hand you the bolts and
hand you the wrench and say, “There you go.’”
And he did. And I screwed my mother’s grave
closed.
That afternoon we—family, extended fam-
ily, friends—went back to my brother’s house.
Amy had gone ahead, picked up platters of
sandwiches and desserts. And we talked. I
changed into normal clothes that were actu-
ally mine. I met the son of my mother’s old-
est friend. My father’s brother came down. I
sat with Amy and said that I would prefer
that we manage to get together under circum-
stances other than this from time to time,
that it would be nice. We were there about
two hours before we left. Everyone needed
rest. Lee and I and the kids headed to Carol’s
house. She had made
One of the four graveworkers stands aside
so I can help roll the casket out. Even the
grave workers are dressed better than I am.
It’s a long walk from the chapel to the grave,
and it’s August 30 in south Florida in a tree-
less cemetery. I am wearing a black silk shirt,
black linen pants, black suede shoes, and it’s
a loooooong walk to the grave. I don’t remem-
ber what was said at graveside; I know that
Kaddish was said. I know that other prayers
were said. There was a canopy with some
chairs set for people; I stood by the grave the
entire time.
And then the funeral was over. The casket
was ready to be lowered into the grave, which
is done by machine (this is not how most Jew-141
Adam Byrn Tritt
ish funeral go), and I had my hand on the cas-
ket as far down as I could—I’d have preferred
lowering it ropes myself, but that wasn’t avail-
able; I think we definitely lose something by
having all this stuff mechanized. We were
given little plastic baggies of dirt, about the
size of two ketchup packets, to throw on to
the casket. I wanted a shovel and a pile of dirt, and what I got were tiny baggies. I wanted to
bury her and all I could throw in was a tea-
spoon of dirt, so I grabbed all that I could
find—it didn’t matter if anyone else had any.
We were then told that it was time to leave,
because it was time to bring in the backhoe
to load in the concrete that would be lowered
halfway down the condo so it would be cov-
ering my mother’s casket. The canopy had to
go. The plywood on which the seats sat had
to be moved so the backhoe wouldn’t eat up
the grass.
And I told them: “No.” Very matter of fact.
No. I was going to help, until it was com-
pletely sealed. I told the rabbi, “I don’t get a shovel, I don’t get any dirt, but I’m going to
damn well see this thing sealed.” He said he
understood.
142
Yahrzeit
The first piece of concrete had a bolt hole
in each corner. Large eyes were screwed into
each, chains attached to those, the four chains
attached to a hook on the backhoe. It was
picked up moved, positioned, lowered. And
I stood there, a little too close for safety, until I could catch the last glimpse of the coffin as
the slab covered it. Then one of the workers
had to jump in and unscrew the bolts and
take the chains off. Lee wisely kept me from
doing that; I was very bothered by someone
I didn’t know jumping into my mother’s
grave, silly me.
Then came the second concrete slab to
cover the top half of the two-story grave.
Same process. I helped unscrew the bolts and
take off the chains, since this was just below
ground level and I could reach it. Then the
same process for the marble grave top. It’s
positioned into place with my hand on it. I
helped take off the chains, unscrew the eyes.
And then the workers come over with a bolt
and a large brass washer, and that is screwed
on, attaching it to the concrete grave box.
I said to one of the workers, “Mind if I do
that?”
143
Adam Byrn Tritt
And he says, “You’re not supposed to.”
And I said to him, an older black fellow, “If
this was your mom, and you had no shovel
and no dirt, what would you do?”
He said, “I would hand you the bolts and
hand you the wrench and say, “There you go.’”
And he did. And I screwed my mother’s grave
closed.
That afternoon we—family, extended fam-
ily, friends—went back to my brother’s house.
Amy had gone ahead, picked up platters of
sandwiches and desserts. And we talked. I
changed into normal clothes that were actu-
ally mine. I met the son of my mother’s old-
est friend. My father’s brother came down. I
sat with Amy and said that I would prefer
that we manage to get together under circum-
stances other than this from time to time,
that it would be nice. We were there about
two hours before we left. Everyone needed
rest. Lee and I and the kids headed to Carol’s
house. She had made
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