• Daniela Weiss-Bronstein

She was my Home

I had a dream I saw you. I was with you, visiting you. One of my kids was there. You were younger, maybe in your 60s or 70s. Being with you felt like home. It always did. In my dream I got to hug you, feel your familiar shape again. Touch your hands, your cheek. It felt like I knew it was the last time.


When I woke up I lost you all over again.


The thing is that grief doesn't seem to fade for me. I get farther from it, but it can come back as fresh as it ever was. I want to be someone who can smile and love that I got to see you. I do love that. I feel so lucky to have these visits with you, to know our souls bonded in a way that even death can't keep us from visiting each other.


But I miss you. And I remember how it felt when I knew that I was actually hugging you for the last time, kissing you for the last time, and then flying home for the years until you were gone and I could never fly back home to you.


I wish it could have been different. That I could have been with you more. But I'm ever grateful for this moment, this day, that entire week that I had with you, where we both knew it was our last together, and yet we were people who could smile and love the time we got to be together.


I miss you Savti.



After writing this I realized that today was the English anniversary of this picture, that moment. Last Monday was the Hebrew. You came to me on Shabbat, in death still more organized than I ever hope to be.

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