The spectre of death this morning hangs over one of the favorite women in my life on this holiday that she used to enjoy more than anyone I have known.

Call her Rebecca.

Rebecca is 73 years old, in relatively good health, and lives alone, though not by choice.

As a girl, Rebecca dreamed of walking down an aisle as a bride, meeting the man of her dreams and raising a large family – “any number G-d wants us to have,” she used to say.

Rebecca never met that man. She was born physically different from all of her friends. Growing up in an era when it was unseemly for girls to take the initiative with boys, she waited to be asked out.

She waited.

Did I mention that she waited?

She said the other day that she has had seven or eight dates. None asked her out a second time.

Half-a-dozen years ago, she moved into senior housing. Not long after, she met a fellow resident, similar in age and circumstances. Call her Marty. Rebecca and Marty grew close, then inseparable. They had every meal together.

Marty did not drive. Rebecca  did. She took her everywhere, including an endless string of doctor appointments.

A year and a half ago, Marty’s health sharply declined, steadily worsened. The end came in June.

Rebecca not only grieved but grieved.

No relief, then or now.

Able to afford only modest professional health, she sought out groups of fellow sufferers.

In early November, Rebecca went on a diet of all-day Christmas movies. No other programming.

An inveterate fan of her hometown pro football team, she does not even know if they played this season.

Six months of unrequited mourning.

Rebecca and I speak often. Last evening, however, she curtailed our conversation. Couldn’t talk. Silent tears leaked through my cell phone.

Yes, Rebecca is different, but only in ways that surely make G-d smile.

When you have a chance, say a prayer for her. Thank you.