Rosh Hashanah is here, my granddaughter turns three this week, and I am sitting here crying as I write this. B’ezrat Hashem, next year I may be spending the High Holidays in Israel. I should be thinking about that with joy.

Instead, I keep thinking about my daughter. My baby girl. And her baby girl. I have written about aliyah as though it were a decision I had finally made. The paperwork says that. The planning says that. My mouth says that when people ask me. But my heart is not nearly as cooperative.

I waited my entire life to become a Zayde. Then this little girl arrived, and I discovered that all the clichés were true. She is beautiful, funny, bright, curious, affectionate and, since I am her Zayde, objectively the most remarkable three-year-old ever born. I am allowed to say that. Grandfathers have certain rights. But behind the jokes is something I have difficulty even writing: I am afraid that if I leave, she will not remember me.

Not recognize me. Remember me. There is a difference. I do not want to be the face that appears on a telephone and is identified for her as Zayde. I want her to remember sitting with me. I want her to remember my voice in the room. I want her to remember some ridiculous little thing we did together that nobody thought important enough to photograph. I want there to be something, years from now, that belongs to her memory and not to somebody else’s story about me.

I know what that looks like because my daughter had it. My parents were a real part of her upbringing. My father was the kind of Zayde every child should have. He was there. My mother was there. They taught her things, loved her, annoyed her, spoiled her, helped shape her, and became part of the furniture of her childhood. My daughter does not need anyone to tell her who her grandparents were. She remembers them. That is all I want for my granddaughter, and it is the part of aliyah that hurts in a place I cannot........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)