Who will say Kaddish for my sweet Aunt Sylvia?

Not the husband or brother she had outlived, when she passed at age 100.

Nor the children she never had.

Nor her excellent nephew and caretaker Dave, a cultural Jew with no synagogue ties.

Nor her wonderful, supportive step-grandson David, an Orthodox Jew for whom “not obligated to” means “not supposed to.”

It falls to me, her long-distance niece, a Jewish Renewal rabbi.

When Aunt Sylvia passed away, I was six months into saying Kaddish for my own mother.

With each recitation, I would think about my mother, feeling her presence, receiving her messages, or asking a question about her.

At first, I tried to hold both Mom and Sylvia – sisters-in-law and close friends — in my heart during the Kaddish. But it did not work. I needed to be fully present with Mom for those 11 months.

In the sixth month after Sylvia’s passing, I finally invited her into my Kaddish.

For the first few weeks, I just cried my way through the prayer.

For the next few weeks, I purposefully thought about how pleased she would be to be remembered in this traditional Jewish ritual. She loved her Jewish identity, appreciated all Jewish religious movements, and was proud of her next generation’s diverse approach to Judaism.

Each time I tried to think, however, an image disrupted my focus. I imagined myself cradling Aunt Sylvia. In real life, she had a small body, and in the image she fit easily in my arms. I loved the sweet intimacy of these Kaddish moments.

But the image seemed a guilty pleasure. Each time, I pushed it away, knowing I did not deserve it. Dave, her caretaker, I thought, has the right to this physical closeness. I, who chose to live so far away from her, do not.

The image returned, week after week, haunting me until I understood: I am saying Dave’s kaddish, too. And David’s kaddish, too. I am carrying the kaddish for all of us, an awesome responsibility.

A few days later, I took responsibility for the family in a dream: It’s Erev Yom Kippur. We all live in the same apartment building, where prayer services are about to start in the communal dining hall. I am in my apartment, putting pizza in the microwave oven, a simple meal before we begin the fast. As soon as the pizza is ready, we will phone Aunt Sylvia, and she will come downstairs to eat with us. All is simple, normal, and easy.

About a month after my father died, Sylvia and I had a heart-to-heart over a shared meal.

I said, “I feel guilty about all the things Dad would have liked me to do for him that I didn’t.”

Sylvia said, “Well, he would have liked you to live closer!”

In her view, all my guilt and all his worry came down to one simple dynamic: across the miles Dad and I had missed each other.

Of course I knew, and I know, Sylvia’s comment expressed her own feeling. Year after year, across the miles, she had missed me.

Our connection across the miles was part of her world, part of her family, and part of her psyche, part of the mysterious hidden web of love that sustained her.

I did hold her, in my way. I was a thread in her web, and she was a thread in mine.

Without the Kaddish, I might have forgotten.

Image: Sylvia and me, at her 100th birthday party.