I was about 12 years old when I realized that my father couldn’t be a father because he’d never had one of his own.

It was fine, my childhood. Not great, but fine. I remember him trying to fit into a space he couldn’t, hold my emotions that were too heavy, wipe my tears with a coarse wipe. But I can only imagine what my father’s childhood was like.

Losing a father at three years old and then not being able talk about him, to keep all feelings locked in a box, not daring to let it out.

My father and his siblings were not raised with stories or memories. They didn’t talk about how much they missed him. Their mother made Kiddush on Friday nights, except for the Shabbosim she retreated, crying, to her room, telling her 11-year-old son to just call their tatty and he will make Kiddush.

My father never talked about the father-shaped hole in his chest. Now, I wish I could understand him and therefore try to understand me.

MY grandfather’s 37th yahrtzeit is coming up.

My aunt starts a text group with the family members. She’ll host the seudah, she writes, and we start planning the menu. Fish cubes, kugel, chicken. Plates and cups and bilkelach.

This is his day, I think, as the texts come in. We should celebrate him; we should hear what made him unique. I type furiously before I can regret it. Can we talk about him this year? Can his siblings share stories?

I have seen one picture of him in all of my life, a blown-up photo of his passport picture. None of us, not his children nor his grandchildren have a story to hold on to, a way to remember him on the one day a year that we should.

My wonderful aunt, Zeidy’s third child, who is hosting the seudah in her house, texts me. What a wonderful idea. I was turning six when my father died. These are all the memories I have.

Every text is another memory.

Lying in the security of my father’s bed after a nightmare.

The annual apple gathering with all our neighbors, my father rewarding the children for every bag of squirrel-eaten apples they collect around the yard.

My father and big brothers painting the porch red.

She remembers three moments with her father, and then there is nothing else. I should cry, I think. It is breaking my heart.

My cousin also responds to my text: Totally, we should.

And she is right, we should. Except calling my grandmother is not an option because she doesn’t talk about him as a rule, and I don’t know if his siblings would feel comfortable to share facts or slam the phone down when their pain takes over and they cannot speak.

It’s been 37 years, and I am not sure what their reaction will be. I am a great-niece who sees them once a year on their brother’s yahrtzeit; I don’t want them to explode in tears in front of my eyes.

I am told to grow up and call them.

Hands trembling as much as my voice will when I start talking, I dial.

“Can you tell me about my grandfather?” I ask.

They are more than willing to; they are eager, their words trip over each other. I am relieved that I can finally breathe again, and my voice is no longer shaking.

His siblings are full of stories and memories, and they are thrilled to share with me.

“He was a great man,” they say. Brilliant, principled but kind. Genuine, charming, he loved a good debate. He had a smile that seldom left his face.

I continue to make calls to brothers and sisters and cousins. But all the questions I’d written neatly on pink stationery do not even begin to scratch through the layers.

He was a good father and had nicknames for his children; he loved music, specifically MBD; he liked steak and fries; he was a cab driver, bus driver, and an askan.

He was born in Israel, raised in Toronto until the age of 11 when his family moved to Brooklyn. He was mischievous.

One Shabbos, my zeidy wasn’t feeling well and when his father came home from shul he said, “You were lucky today, Yossi. Someone broke a window, and had you been there they would have blamed you.”

When his mother was looking for an apartment and could only find a home that would house two children, she jokingly said she’d have no choice but to sell someone. Knowing his track record, my zeidy said, “Please, not me.”

He valued honesty and Torah learning; he was extremely close with the rebbe and worked tirelessly on his behalf. He won every game of Othello he played.

He married his first cousin, my bobby. Their beshow was in my elter bobby’s house — the mothers of the chassan- and kallah-to-be (sisters) sat and played rummy at the kitchen table.

“He walked three hours in the heat with my husband to the hospital when I had my fourth baby,” his oldest sister says. “He stayed for two hours and then he walked all the way back. One of the nurses said that this is what love looks like.”

Somewhere around here another great-aunt stops me. “Why does it really matter, Chaya Sara?” she asks. “It was so long ago.”

I squirm. I’d been expecting this. “I need to know where I come from,” I say. “I need a foundation.”

“Do you know that after he was niftar they wrote an article about him in the Journal News?” my great-aunt continues.

“Until today I didn’t know anything more than his name.”

That night I type the key words into the Google browser. Joseph Davis. 1987. New York. Eulogy. A lot of random things pop up, none that mean anything to me. A picture of a lawyer Nathan Davis. and a singer Joel Davis.

I try again, looking specifically for news, but I get nowhere. My cousin takes over and emails me the next morning with seven different clippings. I devour the articles of a marvelous man. A kind man. A good man. There is a photo of him, a grainy black-and-white image.

My heart soars.

IN the span of a few days, I know more about my grandfather than I’ve ever known. Silly things, like that his least favorite food were olives; his escapades as a child; and the more important things, like his learning, and his compassion, and how he used all his tools G-d gave him to help create a thriving community. Inspiring things, lovely things. I feel like I know him.

More than that, I know what he’d want me to look like.

I’d asked about this, and each of the people who’d been close to him had given me the same answer. Frum, ehrlich, chassidish.

I’d followed up with another query: “Do you think he’d proud of us?”

“Yes, of course he would be,” says one great-aunt. “He would be so impressed with his family. Do you know every time I go to his kever I ask him to look out for his family?”

Another of his sisters says, “Chaya Sara, what do you think? Do you think he’d proud of you?”

Warning signs flash red in my mind. I would not be his poster child.

He is amazing and brilliant. In every way, he is a hero. Me, I’m human, with human tendencies and human faults. I am anxious all the time. Some days I don’t daven, I don’t do my best or try my hardest. Sometimes I feel as though I am not living up to my potential. I forget to greet people with a smile, and it can be hard to be kind and care about an acquaintance I meet on the street. I make mistakes and I do my best to try to fix them, but he is on a pedestal few can achieve. I am nothing like him.

Over the next few days, while I work and eat and drive and sleep, I go down a rabbit hole, convincing myself that the zeidy I’ve never known would not be proud of some of the choices I have made.

I become a mess and I cry more than I should admit. I am blinded as I drive to work, furiously swipe tears as I wipe blood away from the scrapes on my three-year-old campers’ knees.

IT is a few days before the yahrtzeit. I’m sitting with my laptop, staring at the few words I’ve managed to write. They won’t satisfy my family; everyone is waiting to see what I’ve put together about my zeidy. It’s pathetic, really; I have all the answers to all my questions. I have memories. I have a legacy. But I cannot write. I am not sure how to talk about him in a way that will be both gentle and kind to his legacy and honest and true to me.

Here is the truth: I’d wanted a legacy. But I’m scared that the more I write, the more I will realize Zeidy wouldn’t have liked me as his grandchild.

And then it is the day of the yahrtzeit, five days since I heard about my zeidy for the first time. I am driving to work, thinking about the activities I will do with my charges today, when I realize that there are tears streaming down my face and I am talking to my zeidy as if he were next to me.

“Send me a sign,” I beg. “Show me that you love me, that you are happy I am yours.”

And then, at a red light, I see it. I am miles from the town my grandfather remade, but pulling up next to me is a school bus from that very place. Here is where I should say that the day is clear and bright like the sun, that I have a sign that my zeidy would love me and he is proud of me. But it is not sunny. It is raining, water pounding against my windshield as I wipe tears from my eyes. Still, I feel at ease. Zeidy loves me; he is immensely proud of me. The feelings sink into my chest, and I feel light.

Later, as we sit down to fish cubes and kugel, I share what I’ve learned.

About the town called Lost, which eventually became Found.

I’d wanted a legacy, and I thank my family for providing it. I come from someone kind and brilliant and genuine and loved. I am the grandchild of a man with a vision, a man who did not give up. And though I have my days, and my moments, I know that I have Zeidy’s strength within me. I will not give up.

I have a foundation now; I can fly.

I know you are proud of me, Zeidy.

Because I am.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 903)