Luckily, I wasn’t expecting when I went to meet Dorothy. But from that point onwards, I’d scan living rooms for possible kehunah-issues

Nechama Norman with Batsheva Berman

O

ur homes reflect who we are — our quirks, our style, the things we love, the ways we relax. I love getting to see so many homes up close. Sometimes though, what I find surprises me.

Dorothy Summers had lived in the same home for over 30 years — and now she was about to sell it.  It was a sunny spring day when I came to see her home. Within minutes, she was telling me about Howard, her husband of nearly fifty years.

Howard had had a number of health issues, which had flared up when Covid was sweeping the globe. Howard didn’t die of Covid, but because the medical system was so overtaxed, Dorothy wasn’t allowed to see him, and the man with whom she’d shared half a century of life had died alone.

“I miss him so much,” Dorothy told me tearfully.

“I can imagine,” I said.

“But he’s here with me,” she added. She led me to her bedroom. In the corner, there was a large earthenware urn. Dorothy pointed it out, and said “He’s right there.”

I swallowed my gasp just in time. My husband is a Kohein, and Kohanim aren’t allowed to be metamei l’meis. Which means no cemeteries, no indoor levayos, and definitely no being under the same roof as someone’s remains.