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A Hand, A Coffee, and the Eternal Bond

by Ram ben Ze’ev


A Hand, A Coffee, and the Eternal Bond
A Hand, A Coffee, and the Eternal Bond

Early this morning, at around 2:30am GMT, I awoke suddenly from a dream that was unlike any I’ve had since my father died on 7 August 2018. I’ve often wondered why I never dreamt vividly of him. We were close, and yet, night after night, year after year, his presence never appeared in my sleep in a way that felt tangible. But last night was different.


In the dream, my father and I were at a truck stop buying coffee — something he often did. The scene was familiar, ordinary, and yet there was a quiet clarity to it that made it feel utterly real. We stood side by side at the counter. He paid for the coffee and then turned to me, saying “goodbye.”


As I reached for my cup, I paused. Something about the way he said it struck me — it didn’t sound casual, like “see you later.” It felt final. I turned back to ask him what he meant, but he was already gone.



Upon waking, the experience lingered with unusual weight. It was not just a dream; it was a moment of encounter. In Jewish thought, dreams that are vivid and emotionally resonant are often understood not as random mental images, but as meaningful experiences of the neshamah — the soul. Sometimes the soul of a loved one visits through familiar settings, places that serve as spiritual thresholds. A truck stop, a cup of coffee — liminal, in-between spaces — are often where such encounters are felt most clearly.


My father paying for the coffee and saying goodbye mirrors the reality of death itself. We are often caught mid-gesture, turning to ask one more question, to say one more word, and they are already gone. It was a moment both ordinary and sacred.


I have recited Kaddish Yatom (Mourner’s Kaddish) every single day since my father’s death. Though Jewish law and tradition require it for only eleven months — the twelfth being reserved for the most wicked of souls, and no one likes to imagine their parents in that category — I made a conscious decision to continue for the rest of my life. When my rabbi explained this in 2015, three years before my father died, he told me that the reason for the eleven-month period is that the recitation of Kaddish helps to elevate the soul of the departed through the sanctification of G-D’s Name. After that time, it is presumed that their soul no longer needs that particular kind of elevation. But I resolved that, regardless of my parents’ individual merits or failings, I would continue to say it daily on their behalf — as an act of love, gratitude, and eternal connection.


The dream felt like a gentle communication from my father’s soul — not to tell me to stop, but to mark a moment. Perhaps a stage in his soul’s journey. In Jewish tradition, the soul continues to ascend through various levels after death, taking pleasure and elevation in the deeds, mitzvot, and prayers of their children. By living righteously, by learning Torah, by sanctifying G-D’s Name through our actions, we give our parents spiritual “gifts” in the World of Truth. It is, in a way, a reward for bringing us into the world.



Reflecting on this dream brought me back almost five years earlier, to the night my mother died on 2 December 2020. She lived near Boston, Massachusetts, and because of complicated circumstances, we had not seen or spoken for many years. I learned of her death late the following day, 3 December, through an email from my sister. But something happened during the night that I will never forget.


I was asleep, or perhaps in that strange borderland between sleep and wakefulness. The room was dark. I felt someone holding my hand. The sensation was clear — gentle but firm — and I couldn’t pull my hand back. There was no fear, only calm, as if time slowed. I could not see anyone, but the presence was undeniable. After a short while — perhaps a minute, though it felt longer — I suddenly regained the ability to move my hand, and the sensation ended.


Later that morning, I told a friend about it. At that time, I was completely unaware that my mother had died during the night, so the thought of a connection never occurred to me. My first, selfish worry was that some illness or paralysis might be setting in. It was only later, after hearing the news, that the experience returned to my mind with piercing clarity.


The last time I had seen my mother was in 1997. She suffered from scleroderma, a debilitating illness that gradually imprisoned her in her own body. I remember her frail hands, thin and cold. I held them to warm them. It was an act of love and farewell, though I didn’t know it then. More than twenty years later, on the night of her death, I felt her hand again — not cold, not frail, but free. It was as though her neshamah, released from its broken body, reached out to me one last time.


The Holy Zohar teaches that the soul remains aware at the time of death, that it hovers and is conscious of its loved ones. Encounters like these — calm, intimate, unforced — are consistent with what our Sages described: when the neshamah of a loved one visits, it is not frightening, but enveloping. These moments are gifts, glimpses of the eternal bond between souls.


Having now experienced this twice — once at the threshold of my mother’s departure, and again years later with my father in a dream — I believe these encounters are real. Not in the sensational sense, but in the deep, quiet, spiritual sense that our tradition recognises. These are the moments when the invisible thread between souls becomes briefly visible.


I will continue to recite Kaddish daily for both of them. It is not because I believe their souls are trapped, G-D forbid, but because my prayers, mitzvot, and learning can elevate them further, bringing them nachat ruach — spiritual joy. And in doing so, I elevate myself as well, drawing closer to G-D and honouring the parents who gave me life.


As I reflect on these encounters, I offer this prayer:


‏יהי רצון מלפניך ה׳ אלקי ואלקי אבותי שתהא נשמת אבא ואמא צרורה בצרור החיים, ותתעלה מעלה מעלה בזכות התורה, המצוות והתפילות שאני מקדיש לזכרם בכל יום. תן לי כח להמשיך בדרכך, ולעשות נחת רוח לנשמותיהם ולשמך הגדול. אמן.


May it be Your will, L-RD my G-D and G-D of my fathers, that the souls of my father and mother be bound up in the bond of eternal life, and may they ascend ever higher through the Torah, mitzvot, and prayers I dedicate daily in their memory. Grant me strength to continue in Your ways, to bring joy to their souls and sanctify Your great Name. Amen.



>>>> BUY ME A COFFEE <<<<


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