Yom HaShoah in Miami used to draw hundreds of Holocaust survivors to gatherings across the city, including outdoor ceremonies at the Holocaust Memorial in Miami Beach. I remember standing there with my grandparents and their friends. Their wrinkled skin and the way each of them aged differently stayed with me. Each survivor had a distinct personality. I remember my grandparents crying, and yet also smiling at me. I remember hugging them, listening to them sing along, and feeling something I didn’t have words for.

What didn’t follow the ceremony was a clear, deliberate way of honoring Yom Hashoah in my own home.

Now that my grandparents are gone, the day feels different. It’s not that it feels less important, or distant from my life. I share their stories often, as a docent and through 3GMiami. In many ways, their memory is still present in my daily life. But when they were alive, I wasn’t creating meaning. I was entering into theirs. The day lived in them, in their presence, and in their complex emotions. I didn’t need to explain anything or start a conversation. Just being with them made the day feel real and heavy and meaningful. Now, that doesn’t happen on its own. What’s missing is my grandparents holding my hand and sharing their emotional stories. And without them, I can’t rely on that presence anymore.

Year after year, I attend ceremonies in synagogues, schools, and public memorials. I listen, I stand in silence, and then I leave, seamlessly returning to my daily routine. I’ve begun to feel that showing up isn’t enough. The day should include creating intentional space for these stories in my own home, in a way that invites my children into them. I’ve started to wonder what my children will actually take with them when I’m no longer here to tell my grandparents’........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)