The word is so overused, but I have no other word: I loved P.G. Waxman.
The sweetness.
The sincerity.
The vulnerability.
The reaching out.
Not afraid to show his emotions.
It is so hard to be a friend — not an acquaintance, not a business associate, not an admirer, not an observer, not a spouse, not a colleague, but a friend.
Someone you so loved being around.
I loved being around P.G. Waxman from the first moment I met him.
In that moment, love was on his sleeve. It was a time when the emotions of both of us were raw. His mother was dying in the hospital. So was my sister-in-law. We met in what, appropriately enough, is called the Friendship House, near major hospitals in Manhattan. The Friendship House is a set of apartments made available without cost for people whose loved ones are hospitalized nearby, and who need to be advocates for them.
As it turned out, P.G. and I met on Shabbos. Despite everything, we made Shabbos together. We let it be Shabbos. And so, while his love for his mother came through the tears he mostly held back because it was Shabbos, it was clear, so perfectly clear, that he could love someone else at the same time.
In this manner we became friends.
Over the last five years we called each other.
We wrote each other.
We traded words of Torah, and critiqued each other’s words of Torah.
We asked about each other’s health and the health of our loved ones.
I prayed for “Pinchas Gershon son of Hannah” and he prayed for one of my dear ones.
I never met his mother.
He never met my sister-in-law.
It made no difference.
We became enwrapped in each other’s lives right from that Shabbos.
P.G. was one of those rare souls whose soul was open to people. What a gift that he happened to be there in the Friendship House, on the same floor, right next door, the same Shabbos as my wife and I.
His insights into the Torah were concise, well thought out, well researched, creative, original. Yet he would ask my opinion, as if I were his mentor.
He had an enormous amount of Torah learning behind him, years and years of Torah study, yet he presented himself as a real estate person. Which he was. There was no contradiction, because underlying everything he did was something deeper: love of people, and love of G-d.
And love of honesty.
Now I am asking, where will I hear a voice like his again? When will I get a call with that gentle voice, that concerned, compassionate voice, also simple and direct, in the middle of my day, to brighten my day?
I have a pile of P.G.’s thoughts on the Torah at home, which he shared over the years.
They will have to do.
His lips will keep murmuring for me.
He will speak from across the impassable barrier.
G-d put P. G. Waxman into my life.
Now he is gone. But his Torah thoughts are not.
Still, it is so difficult to wrap your hands around sheets of paper on which a person’s thoughts are written and expect them to understand your tears.
At least I need not say: I never expressed it all to P.G. when he was alive.
No regrets.
Just pain.
The absence.
Love is so hard to replace.
Copyright © 2020 by the Intermountain Jewish News
