Because I miss her

My grandmother passed on Zot Channukah- the 8th night- 10 years ago.

The first few years the grief was steep. Raw. I missed her so much, the ache clawing away with every new moment or milestone that she missed.

All the time I picked up the phone to call her. We used to talk every day.

She was fine until she wasn’t. And on my grandfather’s yartzeit on the 6th night of Channukah- she began to slip away.

Finally leaving us on the last night.

The last few years, as much as I’ve missed her, I have been feeling gratitude that she was spared some of the more horrible turns that the world has taken.

Plag*e, politics, terr*r, w*r, h*tred.

She had seen so much suffering, a Hol*caust survivor.

Her heart was resilient and tender: and she curated her life to nourish and nurture.

She was gentleness and refinement.

She was Chanukah cookies and knerdel.

She was hugs and flower arrangements.

She was poetry and curiosity.

She was love.

We loved her and gosh, she loved us.

10 years now, and my grief has softened into something else: something less sharp, something more secure. A connection tethering us no matter the space between worlds.

It’s safety. It’s a lighthouse. It’s aspirational.

She left me a road map.

Not one of hard lines.

One of curves and turns and soft landing spaces, and patience for the journey.

She didn’t know what was coming, but she gave me what I needed regardless.

Now, I smile when I see her legacy still playing out in real time. Her namesakes and great grandchildren carrying her traditions even if they don’t know it yet.

So on this last night of Channukah I light my grandparent’s menorah in my home in Israel, like I have since she last lit it ten years ago.

And I light an extra light for her.

Because I miss her.