The Comfort of Presence

The Piznarskis’ home was quiet, filled with the low murmurs of condolences, the unmistakable sound of sniffles and noses blowing, and the occasional clinking of a spoon against a tea cup. The scent of fresh-baked challah and slow-simmered kugel lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of the Havdalah spices from the night before. It was the very first day of shiva and the mirrors had been covered, the chairs had been lowered, and the weight of grief pressed upon the house like a heavy, oppressive, unshakable fog. Mourners sat around in low stools and chairs. Visitors came and went. They hadn’t felt this kind of heavy pain and loss since the shiva for Grandpa Harold, and more recently, the shiva for Uncle Daniel. It was the kind of grief and loss that you physically feel pushing down on you and crushing you like a hydraulic press.

The Liebermans were close family friends and the Piznarskis loved them like family. They celebrated every Jewish holiday and celebration together—weddings, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, a new baby’s bris, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Purim, Sukkot, Hanukkah, Pesach… And now, shiva. The Piznarskis and Liebermans were more than just friends. They were more than just neighbors. They were more than just business partners. They were family. There had even been talks of marriages happening between the two families, even if only in jest.

Jeremy sat beside his parents Miriam and Avner and his siblings Chelsea and Ted, his fingers curled loosely around a glass of water. Across from him, Rachel Lieberman, the daughter of the deceased, sat on a low stool, her face pale and drawn. Her dark curls were frizzed from the humidity and the weight of sorrow. She had barely spoken since the shiva began, only nodding at the visitors who came and went, offering whispered condolences before stepping aside for the next. An arsonist had burned their house and everyone else had escaped in time, except for Mr. Lieberman. That was the reason why the shiva was held at the Piznarskis’. The Liebermans no longer had a house of their own to go home to. Everything had been torched to the ground. Every piece of memory gone in an instant. Nothing was left—nothing but ashes and burnt wooden frames. It looked as though a bomb had gone off.

Jeremy watched as his mother, Miriam Piznarski, reached over and squeezed Rachel’s hand. No words were exchanged, just the simple gesture of presence, of understanding. There was something sacred in silence, in the knowledge that no platitudes could fix the depth of loss. 

Jeremy took a slow breath, exhaled, and leaned forward, his voice quiet but steady. He had heard his father utter the words he was about to speak a thousand times before, to a thousand mourners, at a thousand shivas. His uncles had whispered it. His cousins had said it. He’d heard many mourners offer it. He’d heard it so many times over the course of a week at the shiva for Grandpa Harold. His Aunt Esther had uttered those very same words at the shiva for another close family friend of theirs. He had been practicing those words in his head all day, looking for the right moment to say them. Ha'makom yenahem etkhem betokh she'ar avelei Tziyon vi'Yerushalayim.

"Ha'makom yenahem etkhem betokh she'ar avelei Tziyon vi'Yerushalayim," he said softly, his voice shaky and his throat dry.

May the Almighty comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. Those were the traditional words of comfort said to the bereaved during shiva.

Rachel’s shoulders, which had been stiff with the effort of holding herself together, finally loosened. She exhaled, a trembling breath that carried more weight than words ever could. Her lips pressed together, and for the first time in days, her eyes met his. 

“Thank you, Jeremy,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, the exhaustion of grief settling into her bones. 

Jeremy hesitated for only a moment before he reached out, gently wrapping his arms around her in an embrace. He felt her hesitate—always composed, always guarded—but then she sank into it, her fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve as though anchoring herself to something solid, something tangible, something that could comfort her. Something that she could be sure was real.

Rachel didn’t let go right away, and Jeremy didn’t rush her. He felt her breath shudder against his shoulder, heard the soft sniffle she tried to suppress. In all the years they had known each other—since childhood Shabbat dinners and late-night study sessions before exams—he had never seen her like this. Rachel was the composed one, the one who always knew what to say, who carried herself with quiet confidence. Now, grief had stripped that away, leaving only raw sorrow in its place. 

When she finally pulled back, she wiped at her face quickly, as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. 

Jeremy shook his head. “Don’t be. You don’t have to hold it together.” 

Rachel gave a tight, exhausted smile. “Feels like I do.” 

His mother, still sitting beside them, reached for Rachel’s hand again. “You don’t,” Miriam said softly. “Not here. Not with family.” 

Rachel swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around Miriam’s. For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only with the distant sounds of murmured conversations from the other room. The weight of loss, though heavy, seemed momentarily shared. 

Jeremy stood and glanced toward the kitchen, where his father and a few others were setting out plates of food. “Have you eaten anything today?” 

Rachel huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I think someone handed me a piece of challah earlier, but I don’t remember if I actually ate it.” 

“Come on.” Jeremy held out his hand. “Let’s get you something. You don’t have to sit here and take care of everyone else. Let us take care of you.” 

She hesitated, then nodded, letting him lead her to the kitchen. And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to be comforted.

The world did not stop grieving just because they sat shiva. The sun still rose, the sun still set, the stars still blinked in the night sky, the city still bustled beyond the walls of the Piznarski home, and time moved forward without their permission. But in that moment, in that simple act of presence, of warmth, of knowing, the weight of mourning became just a little bit easier to bear.