יום ראשון, 20 בינואר 2013
It's no wonder I write this on the plane and turbulence accompanies my flight to your funeral.
How strange to use this word in such a context.
Danny, since I became a part of the family when Stav and I were 10 years old, you've been my second father, Rachel my second mother, and Stav and Dee, my sisters.
When we were old enough, you spoke of this day and asked that we rejoice in your memory. Everyone here knows you were the kindest, most selfless person we know, and always put others way, way before you. So you said you didn't want us to cry on this day, but I know you're up there, forgiving us for crying so selfishly about your absence.
My second father, I'm sorry you're not here to run your fingers through my curls and tell me how much you love them, not here to give that warm, bear hug and call me your baby girl. But I know you're not suffering anymore, you're finally not feeling pain, and you're still watching over everything we do, guiding us and being the proud and supportive father you were. Those are the two best words to describe you as a father: proud and supportive.
I learned so much from you - we all did. We learned unconditional love, we learned humor in the face of pain, we learned silliness and adamant emotions, we learned the beauty of a proud smile. I will always carry you in my heart, as I did previously, and I will share the legacy you left us.
When I buried Sabba Moshe 3.5 years ago, we wrote on his grave: תודה על כל אשר למדתנו - Thank you for all you have taught us. I think it fitting to say this today: Thank you for the knowledge and wisdom you taught.
יהיה זכרך ברוך,
ברוך דיין האמת,
אוהבת אותך תמיד.
Love you always,
Your baby Michalee.
my overworked eyes
search the skies for your existence
maybe i will find a new star twinkle in the distance
and you will hold my hand
and i will know your presence
a poem I wrote about Danny after his last visit in Israel (Hebrew)