Mom, Standing here today, trying to put into words what you meant to me – to us – is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Your sudden, unexpected departure has left our hearts shattered, and we are still struggling to grasp the reality of a world without you in it.
For nearly 35 years, I had the immense privilege of calling you my Mom. As I look back, I carry the weight of things left unsaid, moments I wish I could relive, and love I wish I had expressed more often. I wish I had given you more hugs, more patience, more “thank-yous,” and more “I love yous.”
You and I shared many things – including complicated relationships with our mothers, something we often joked about. But that shared experience brought us closer. We understood each other in unspoken ways. And through it all, your love for me never faltered.
Some of my most vivid memories are the simplest: Playing Candy Land and Speed together. You making lunch every day when I came home from school. The trips we took as a family. And how you made sure my sisters and I stayed connected to our roots – to grandparents, cousins, our aunt and uncle – even across oceans.
And then there were your quilts – so much more than just fabric and thread. They were expressions of your love. You made so many for me, and I still use them to this day. But you also quilted for others – for soldiers, for the fallen – as a gesture of warmth and remembrance for a country you loved with all your heart. You were a proud Zionist. Your love for Israel and Jerusalem ran deep, as did your compassion for others.
Mom, no one showed up for me the way you did. When I was in and out of the hospital for nearly a year, you were there. Every day. Every night. You never left my side. You gave everything to ensure I was never alone. That kind of selflessness is something I will never forget – and will never stop trying to live up to.
You taught me kindness, empathy, and what it means to be a good person. You taught me the difference between right and wrong. You taught me English – but more importantly, you taught me how to speak the language of love, resilience, and grace.
Your friendships were something special; you were cherished by so many. When those dearest to you began to pass away – several of them in just the last 18 months – I saw your sorrow. The weight of those losses was so heavy; perhaps, in some way, it became too much to bear. And yet, even in grief, you kept giving. You volunteered, you cared, you showed up. You lived your values, giving your heart to others – quietly, humbly, and fully.
I regret the times I took you for granted, and the times I was a difficult teenager. You didn’t deserve that, and I am so, so sorry. But I also want to thank you. For everything. For always making time for me. For pushing through the walls I tried to build. For loving me unconditionally.
Today, I make this promise to you: I will live by your values. I will be there for Dad, for Talia, Dana, and Yoni. I will carry your legacy with dignity, grace, and strength.
I’ll never forget that Friday morning when I got Dad’s call – the one that changed everything. I didn’t yet understand the gravity of it until he said you had only days left. I was at a wedding in Toronto, one you and Dad had even considered attending. In that moment, nothing mattered but getting to you.
It was a brutal, anxious 24 hours of travel. I just needed to make it in time. I kept praying that you would hold on – that somehow, if you heard my voice or felt my presence, it would give you the strength to stay.
When I arrived that Sunday night and walked into your hospital room, the absence of your hug, your kiss, and your smile was unbearable. But I am so, so grateful I made it. I know you heard me. I know the words I spoke reached you – that they found their way into your heart and soul.
Yesterday morning, as I prepared to be by your side again, the emotions overwhelmed me. I cried the entire way to the hospital. But when I saw you resting peacefully, I felt relief. I told you again that I love you. That you’re the best Mom in the world. That I’m so lucky to be your son.
And I repeated the four things I had said the night before: Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.
Moments later, I watched you take your final breath. I knew you were gone, but I also knew you had waited for me. You didn’t leave this world alone, and for that, I am forever grateful.
Your love will never leave us. It lives on in every quilt you made, every life you touched, every friendship you treasured, and the values you planted in all of us. And now, from the other side of the valley – just beyond the Jerusalem Forest we’ve looked out on our whole lives – you’ll be resting in the very place our home faces each day. The house you filled with warmth and memory, the place you raised us and loved Dad so deeply, now looks out toward you. From that quiet hill, you’ll watch over him – over all of us – just as you always did. Not with words, not with hands, but with the same unwavering presence that defined your life.
Thank you for being our guiding light. Our anchor. Our everything. I love you. Always and forever.