My dear son,

Was it not just yesterday that I cradled you in my arms, your little fingers curled around mine?

I can still see your newborn body rising with each breath, feel your silken little head, and hear your innocent wail. How have the moments passed by in a flash?

You were born on the holy day of Shabbos.

After havdalah, your grandparent’s, Bubba and Abba Zayda, came to meet you. They brought your little siblings along. Laughter and shouts of mazel tov filled the room. We walked together to the nursery to find our baby. Amidst the bundles of blue and pink we finally found you, eyes wide open.

My father motioned to me to come close.

“Slova Channalah,” he said, “yesterday this little neshamalah was studying Torah with the angels in the heavens above. Now he is here with you. Teach him. Guide him well. He is a priceless gift, a pure soul. Watch over him, my shayfalah.

I’ve tried my best to follow your Abba Zayda’s words. I never imagined he would not be at my side as you grew.

You had just a year together but how you loved one another. Your favorite place in the world would be nestled contentedly on your Zaydie’s shoulders. You had a language of your own. When it was time for us to say goodbye and leave, you would hold on tight protesting with tears. Then came that awful time. Abba Zayda was taken to Sloan. I asked permission for you to visit. Your sunshine radiated the hospital walls and pushed the heavy darkness away.