When you placed an order at the grocery store, you took notes of the kids’ preferences: which type of sweet each liked, which snack they wanted to try. Friday morning, you Ubered to the bakery with my daughter and me. We calculated what we’d need for the next few days. Chose challahs and cakes for Shabbos. You bought something to suit every child’s tastebuds. For Shabbos morning you ordered babka. How we all loved the cinnamon and chocolatey sweetness. On some of those Shabbosos during our stay, you made your signature plau tomata, your soup, your vegetable bahji.

If only I’d known it would be the last time I’d eat those dishes.

We sang zemiros together. We spent hours laughing through the riddle book you gave my son. We sat during the quiet hours. You played games with the children. We chatted about everything. Just being in your presence was calming.

When I dozed off on the couch, you jumped up to get one of those soft, fluffy blankets you kept close.

You were forever a mother. And I forever your little girl.

One morning, you decided to come along with us to the aquarium. Even though walking around left you out of breath, that day you walked for hours, your face shining. We walked by the harbor, enjoying the sunshine. We admired the towering ships, the cheeky seagulls, the deep blue sea as it merged into the boundless blue sky.

If only we’d known that would be the last outing we’d have with you.

Sometimes when you were tired, you’d retire to your bed. And then I’d find the kids sitting by your side, chatting, laughing, and smiling, basking in your love.

When it was time to say goodbye, we snapped a few pictures. I hugged you tight, and for some reason took one more picture, just you and me. You were smiling, almost laughing.

I hold that picture dear. If only I’d known it would be the last time, I’d have hugged you tighter. Never let go.

MY fingers hover over the phone each day. I miss sharing cute pictures of my kids. I miss calling you for advice. I miss our chats about the small things. I miss your good Shabbos texts, your brachos and happy birthday messages. I miss the way you loved to laugh and joke.

Summer vacations will forever be different. No longer will you fly in to visit, hiking the Swiss mountains despite your weakness, taking in the fresh air, the views. Last year when we came upon a hanging bridge, dangling way above the valley, you made your way across, while I abandoned the task partway, shaking with fear.

You did it. You showed us how to stand tall and brave — through all of life.

There are days the kids cry because they can’t call you. I don’t know how to comfort them. My heart, too, is broken.

The children miss the Nana who could always comfort them. The Nana who was such a wise presence, who sat with them at bedtime until they drifted into sleep. The Nana who always had a Tehillim by her side because you worried and cared for every single person.

Your chair may be empty, but the space you left in this world is so profound. You’ll always be Mommy, you’ll always be Nana, and with those cherished memories, we hold the wonderful, dear you tightly in our hearts.

Lilui nishmas Chanam bat Esther Malka

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 929)