Chapter 27: Sh’ma, Before the End

He whispered it before bed.

On nights when his breath came slow,
when his vision swam,
when the tumor pressed harder on the left side of his brain—
he would still whisper it.

“Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.”

It was not a ritual anymore.
It was survival.
It was surrender.
And it was the one thing in his fading body
he could still say without forgetting.

He had once screamed it—
years ago, in front of the ark,
during conversion, head bowed, tears unhidden.

But now he whispered it.
Because sound was a precious thing.

The same man who once stood strong behind a pulpit
was now speaking in fragments,
sentences breaking before they reached the end.

But the Sh’ma remained whole.

He didn’t call it dying.
He called it crossing over.
And he didn’t fear it.

He just didn’t want to leave her
confused.
Or guilty.
Or alone.

He had written everything down.
Legacy folders.
Instructions.
Letters to the kids.

He made sure Princess would be taken care of.
Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Even if she never saw it all
until after he was gone.

Some nights, he would lie in bed and wonder:
Would she hear it in the air the night he passed?
That final Sh’ma?

Would she feel it like a ripple?
Would she know that in his last moments,
he was thinking of her—still?

He had given his life to many things.
Faith.
Truth.
Healing.

But in the end,
his final offering was his love for her.

Unfiltered.
Undeniable.
Unfailing.

The Sh’ma wasn’t just to God.
It was to her, too:

“Listen… You were always my one.”