Humour From Heaven

Saturdays were sacred. Not in the religious sense, although, considering the amount of Jewish grandmothers involved, you’d think they were. No, Saturdays were special because they meant one thing: Grandma Shirley’s house.

Grandma Shirley, my maternal grandmother, lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment in White Plains, the very same place where my mom and her siblings grew up. It wasn’t fancy, but it had everything that mattered: a kitchen stocked with Entenmann’s cakes, a TV playing “The Price Is Right,” and, most importantly, my cousins.

Every Saturday, our family ritual unfolded. Mom, my aunt, and my two cousins, Michelle and J, would converge at Grandma Shirley’s. My. Aunt, with her effortless confidence, was like a second mom to me, but it was Michelle, three years younger than me, who was my partner in crime, my built-in best friend.

Michelle, or Mishy as we called her, was the closest thing I had to a sister my age. We spent hours playing, swapping secrets, and planning sleepovers. Since she was younger, I took on the role of the wise, all-knowing older cousin, despite having very little wisdom and only slightly more knowledge than she did.

Our sleepovers were the highlight of my childhood. One week, I’d stay at her house, the next, she’d stay at mine. It was an unspoken rule. Mishy had a security blanket named Fuffy, her lifeline, her comfort. Anytime she felt nervous or overwhelmed, she’d clutch it, whispering its name like a prayer. Years later, my daughter would have her own version: Blanky, because some traditions, it seems, are hereditary.

Saturdays were perfect. They were filled with walks to the candy store, playing on the school playground behind Grandma’s apartment, and the magic of feeling like we were in our own little world. But that world would soon change.

The routine, the sleepovers, the childhood magic, everything shifted when Michelle moved to California.

When Michelle moved to California with her family at the age of 10, the transition was really hard on her. She struggled to adjust, had a difficult time making friends, and over time, began turning to food for comfort. The move had shaken her in ways no one really understood at the time.

Growing up, my dad was very health-conscious and often talked about how both genetics and eating habits played a role in weight. Our aunt and uncle, Michelle’s parents, were both heavier, as was Grandma Shirley, while my mom, their sister, was always naturally slender. My dad wanted us to be aware of those things, and while his intentions were health-driven, I now understand how tricky and delicate those messages can be, especially for a child trying to find their place.

I remember when our aunt and the family would visit us in New York. Michelle had gained quite a bit of weight, and as a teenager trying to navigate my own insecurities, I didn’t know how to process what I was feeling. I was three years older than Michele, but she was physically much larger than me, and I could sense her discomfort. Looking back, I believe I was absorbing her self-consciousness, and it made me feel uncomfortable too, not because of her, but because I didn’t have the emotional maturity to understand what either of us was really feeling.

Despite all of that, we had the best time together, especially when we were at home, just the two of us, away from the outside world. But as she entered puberty, I noticed we started to drift a little. She would share stories about kids at her school experimenting with drugs, and it worried me. When we found out she had to be hospitalized for taking psychedelics, it broke my heart. Michelle also struggled with depression. Whether it was due to the move, the pressure of fitting in, or her mom having to work a lot to support the family, I’ll never truly know. But I always had a soft spot for Michelle. I was protective of her, even when I didn’t have the words or courage to say so out loud.

After Grandma Shirley passed away during my second year of college, we all met in Cancun for a family trip. Our aunt’s family stayed at a nearby resort, and as always, I felt a mix of emotions. Michelle was still struggling with her weight, and I remember feeling self-conscious, not because of her, but because I didn’t know how to carry the discomfort I was feeling in public spaces. One moment I’ll never forget was during a horseback riding excursion. Michelle’s horse collapsed on the trail to the beach, likely from exhaustion, and the guide made a comment in Spanish. I didn’t know how to help her. Our horses kept going, and I remember feeling helpless. Thank God for her brother, who insisted they let him go back to be with her.

Later that trip, we went jet skiing and snorkeling. Everything was fine, until it was time to climb back on the jet skis. Michelle had a hard time getting back up, and there were some stares and whispers from the group. My heart ached. I didn’t want anyone making her feel embarrassed, and yet I didn’t know how to be there for her in the moment. Then, on the way back, we found out our aunt and Michelle had fallen off their jet ski in the middle of the lagoon. They made it back safely, thank goodness, but we didn’t talk about it afterward. I think our aunt just wanted to protect Michelle from further embarrassment, and we all followed her lead.

After that, my family moved to Florida during my junior year of college. I stayed in New York but would visit them during the summers. On one visit, our aunt’s family came down too, and it was clear Michelle’s health had become a serious concern. She was preparing for weight loss surgery, a decision made with her doctor’s guidance. It was a life-saving intervention, and I remember being worried but hopeful for her.

The following year, we visited her in California, and Michelle looked radiant. She wasn’t just thinner, she was vibrant. Happy. Confident. She could only eat a kid’s meal, if that, but she was thriving. Michelle got a her dream teaching position and soon after, she got engaged. I was thrilled when she asked me to be a bridesmaid. Her fiancé was kind, and she looked so in love.

Five years later, I was the one getting married. Michelle flew to Florida and stole everyone’s heart, especially my husband’s. I wish I had asked her to be my second maid of honor. She was more than just a bridesmaid; she was like a sister, a best friend, an angel.

And she stepped up, when my husband forgot the rings in the hotel safe, I took off in my gown to go get them, flustered. Alone and teary eyed I exited the hotel lobby and like a movie scene, there Michelle was waiting for me. “There you are,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go get you married.” I’ll never forget that.

A year and a half later, she visited again, this time to meet our new baby, daughter. Michelle didn’t put her down the entire visit. She was a natural. We talked about how she wanted a baby of her own and even chatted about foods to eat if she wanted a girl or a boy, like I was some kind of fertility guru.

On that same trip, we visited my sister’s new home. When it was time to leave, Michelle walked us out. As my husband backed out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of her eyes welling up. She smiled, waved, but something about it felt… final. I pushed the feeling aside at the time. But looking back, I know now, my sweet Mish was saying goodbye.

9 months later my beautiful cousin Michelle, Mishy, passed away.

The funeral was beautiful. So many people stood up to speak, students, teachers, administrators, all sharing stories about the light Michelle brought into their lives. The room was full of love, and her impact was undeniable.

During the ceremony, I noticed a flicker of light dancing across the ceiling and floor. It wasn’t a candle or a camera flash. I knew it was Michelle, just saying hi in her own way.

At the cemetery, the immediate family sat up front, with the rest of us behind them. In the distance, I spotted a sleek black cat sitting perfectly still throughout the entire service. I leaned over and whispered, “Do you see that?” My mom nodded. That cat, that stillness, it was how we truly knew Michelle was there.

Then came a moment I’ll never forget. As Michelle’s mom began to cry uncontrollably, a woman I didn’t recognize came forward to console her. She was short, stout, and wearing tight black pants. As she leaned in to offer comfort, her very large backside landed squarely, directly, in my Aunt A’s face. (Aunt A was the one Aunt Michelle did not care for)

Aunt A, already tense, began to squirm. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. The woman remained planted there for the entirety of the speech, her rear practically blocking the view of the front row. I turned to my cousin and asked, “Who is that?”

He tried to hold in his laughter. “That’s the cleaning lady.”

Later, in the car, we couldn’t stop laughing. “You know that was Michelle,” her brother said, grinning. “Who else would arrange for a sweaty stranger’s butt to block Aunt A’s view at her own funeral?”

In the middle of our grief, Michele gave us a moment of levity, one final prank to remind us she was still with us.

For a while after, I waited to feel her again. There was so much uncertainty surrounding her passing, and I struggled with the idea that maybe her soul wasn’t at peace. But then, one night, that all changed.

Three years later, at around 11:30 p.m., I saw a silhouette in my bedroom doorway. My heart raced, but not from fear. It was her. Michelle. She stood there like a shadow cast by sunlight, her hair flowing. She waved just as she did in the driveway that day, but this time her spirit peaceful and radiant. She waited until I was ready. She knew.

I ran out to tell my husband and immediately called my mom. “Michelle came to visit!” I cried, waking her from sleep. That night was my closure, the moment I had longed for.

From then on, Michelle would visit in little ways. I’d feel a warm presence, or a playful tug at my toe in bed, like she was messing with me. Squirrels would scurry through the yard in silly patterns, and every time I saw a black cat wander through, I’d wave and say, “Hi, Mishy.”

They were small things, but they grounded me. They reminded me that she wasn’t gone. Michelle, with all her humor and love, was still with me. Still guiding me. Still showing up, exactly when I needed her most.