Boruch Dayan Emes

Yesterday marked exactly one year since the passing of my beloved friend Yitzchak. I didn’t write about him. I thought about him, for sure, but I couldn’t think of any words which did him justice. I still can’t, but it’s a day later, and I no longer feel the pressure I felt yesterday. Yesterday wasn’t even the yahrzeit. It was one year. That’s all. One year. In some ways it feels like just yesterday that I was watching him receive his last aaliyah, with pride and tears in my eyes. But in most ways, it feels like an alternate reality. Something that almost never happened. It was, really. I’m a different person now. But no matter how many things I’ve changed, no matter how I’ve progressed, there’s still a Yitzchak shaped hole in my life. There always will be. There will never be someone like him again. Never. I wish I could wax lyrical about Yitzchak’s exploits, but I can’t. Not here. For privacy’s sake. But I am happy to say that if I were to write about him, any friend or accquaintance would immediately guess who he was. That’s how unique, how memorable, how amazing, he was. He saved lives. He defied reason. He fought inequality, dictatorship, and despair.

Yitzchak, I miss you.

 

This article also appeared under the title In Loving Memory.

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