Shiva means seven in Hebrew and it is the term for the week-long period of grief and mourning for one’s father, mother, son, daughter,
brother, sister, and spouse. During that week, most ordinary activity is suspended and the family is meant to sit shiva at home. Shiva is just one of the bereavement rituals in Judaism.

We decided to receive shiva calls on Thursday and Friday at my father’s apartment with its incredible view of Lower Manhattan. I knew Thursday would be incredible because the Tribute in Lights would be in full view at dusk.

My father witnessed the events of September 11th from his window and was never able to wash those terrible images out of his head. He told me once that he took pictures with a film camera but has never looked at them. I’m not sure he even had them developed.

At that time seven years ago and after he said, and I paraphrase, "What used to be the most beautiful view in the world is now the ugliest."

At the shival tonight, friends filed into the apartment with bags of delicious food. It seemed to be an unusually delicious array of cheeses from Balducci’s, desserts from Sweet Melissa’s, fruits like figs, peaches and plums, homemade quiche and a beautiful fruit tart.

And of course, there was much wine. I brought the bottle of Balvenie single malt scotch, which my father gave to Hugh on his birthday last June. Somehow the deep and woody aroma of this scotch is more evocative of my father than anything. My father loved to add to Hugh’s collection of interesting scotches and he’d always ask for a sip when he came over.

At dusk, the two beams of light did shoot up into the blue night sky. Friends watched in awe as the sky got darker and the lights more vivid.