FLORIDA
WARREN'S FUNERAL
JUNE 29, 2003

We'd stayed in touch with Adena since our visit in January. Warren's course went exponentially downhill. He went from assisted living to the hospital again and again. Nursing homes would not take him. Speech left him completely. The only place he could live was in a psychiatric unit, where the amount of medication it took to keep him in control left him in a vegetative state in a chair.

When did Warren die? It's a question no one can answer. When Arlene called to tell us it was over, there was still a sense of dread, but there was relief, as well. None of us should have to die like that. Warren didn't want it. His family didn't want it. But despite everyone's wishes, explicit and in writing, the bureaucracy and Florida's system of mores and justice made the fulfillment of those wishes impossible.

The funeral was a celebration of his life. What a life! He was my childhood friend, my college roommate, my fellow rider on the subway from Hebrew College to Harvard. We shared the same bed--me on top, he on the bottom. So, I took his goodness for granted. It took others speaking about him for me to recall that we never had a fight, never an argument. The rabbi put it best: he was a shayner yid--a beautiful Jew. A zeeser yid--a sweet Jew. He was full of love. He loved life so. He loved his family, he loved music--listening and making music, he loved his wife, his children, his friends, he loved to swim and play tennis, he loved to eat. And he loved his work, the translation of modern Hebrew poetry, the teaching, the reading. Towards the end, he underlined books, every word. So, in life, he loved every minute.

Each member of the family spoke eloquently, of their own grief, of the joy and gifts that Warren gave them over the course of his life, of the help and support of their community of friends and caregivers, and of the frustration of having to deal with a health system that is so unresponsive. A cornet player joined Rob, who played piano, "Where or When." Adena read one of Amichai's poem's that Warren had translated.

MY FATHER

The memory of my father is wrapped in white paper
like slices of bread for a day's work.

Like a magician who pulls rabbits and towers from his hat,
he pulled from his small body--love.

The rivers of his hands
poured into his good deeds.
 

On the cover of the funeral booklet was a single line from a poem by Dan Pagis that Warren had translated.

I am who I am. I cannot recall anymore.

Nafsho tzrurah bitzror hahayim.
Zecher tzaddik livracha.

 Back to Gainesville, January 2003

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