My father died on Dec. 4, 2005.

I became a mourner. Jews are obligated to mourn the death of a father and mother, a brother and sister, a spouse and, God forbid, a son and daughter. We tear our shirt as a first sign of mourning. I became an “onen,” one who mourns a yet-unburied relative. After my father’s burial I became an “avel,” one who mourns a buried relative for a seven-day period known as “shiva,” the Hebrew word for “seven.”

My mother called others after my father’s death and said to them, “I lost my best friend.” I had never heard her use that description of my father before and was very moved to hear her put her 63-year marriage in those terms.

During my father’s transition to death, I expressed my hope that he would die when he was ready, that we love him, that we want him to be comfortable, that he will always be with us.

Now as a mourner, I moved to honoring my father’s wishes and memory, as well as showing “kvod hamet,” honor to the dead person and to the dead body. The body is shown honor by always having people present, by reading Psalms, by washing it and dressing it in a shroud (a plain linen garment), by burying it as soon as possible, usually within 48 hours, and by burying it in a plain pine box made entirely of wood.

We were formed from the earth and we return to the earth as naturally and as quickly as possible, no embalming, no metal, only natural linen and wooden products accompany the body to its final resting place.

After my father’s burial, I began “sitting shiva,” sitting for seven days and being present for visitors and for conversations about my father, about memories of his life. “Shiva” for me became a week when my past, present and future came together, a conflation of time. Like a time machine, my life flashed in front of me.

Mrs. Gelbtuch, my childhood “second mother,” visited with her now-grown family. High school and college friends visited, bringing back to my memory people, events and feelings I had 30 years ago and more. My past came into my present.

My present reality was very much with me. My feelings and emotions, the deep experience I had just gone through, being witness and present for my father’s death … I wore the black badge of a mourner beside my heart as I proceeded through “shiva.”

My future also filtered through my heart and mind. I confronted the reality of my own death. I thought about my mother’s death, my brothers’ deaths and my sons’ lives. I considered my own unknown future and my own impermanent, fragile life.

This conflation of time, the coming together of my past, present and future in a brief moment of time during my “shiva,” was a sacred feeling. The process of “sitting shiva” carries with it moments of awe, inspiration and self-awareness as I revisited my life during this week of sitting, remembering and being visited.

Following the week of “shiva” is another three-week period known as “sheloshim,” the Hebrew word for “30.” For another three weeks we abstain from worldly distractions such as music and parties in order to remain focused on remembering our loved one who has died.

Finally, every year on the anniversary of a loved one’s death, Jews light a candle that burns all day to reignite our memory of that person. Our memories of our loved ones keep them alive in us.

My parents’ impact on me is enormous. Even after my father’s death, maybe especially now, I have the challenge and opportunity to internalize my father, to examine and explore his effects on me. I can see him as I look at myself. Physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually and intellectually, I am his son. What parts do I wish to cultivate? Which parts need critical attention?

Now is a time for change and self-examination. A death of a loved one offers an opportunity like no other to look at ourselves and our lives. How can I be a more fulfilled and more loving person? How can I keep the parts of my father that I so admire alive in me? How can I be more careful about those parts of my father that I see in myself which I wish to cast away? These are the thoughts, feelings and issues felt by one mourner who wishes to honor and remember his father’s life. May his memory be a blessing. Amen.

This is the second of a two-part series about my father. Thank you to the many readers who wrote me notes of comfort and condolence. Rabbi Barry Krieger is the rabbinic facilitator for the Hillel organization at the University of Maine in Orono. He may be reached via bkrieger56@aol.com. Voices is a weekly commentary by Maine people who explore issues affecting spirituality and religious life.