“The nation has Memorial Day to remember once a year, but the bereaved families live it every day.”

Like most clichés, it’s true.

For us bereaved families, Memorial Day is the one day a year when the nation steps into our reality, when our daily pain and loss are shared for a moment.

After 25 years I may be called an “old-timer,” a seasoned member of this heartbreaking club, and Memorial Day brings a whole layer of emotions I didn’t even know existed in the beginning.

Every time a new family is brought into this dreaded club, it takes me right back to 25 years ago, the day my mother was murdered in a drive-by shooting attack.

Where was I? Who told me? What was I wearing?  Where were you? Who told you? What were you wearing?

And millions of swirling thoughts and questions.

The memory doesn’t just come back; it lives in the body.  The tingling in my arms. The racing heartbeat. The feeling that the room is spinning.

As Memorial Day approaches, I find myself drawn to the new members of this club, and I think about them deeply.

I know they won’t forget that moment either. I know how it will sit with them in a year, in five years, in ten years, in 25 years.

I remember a time when, as Memorial Day approached, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Speaking requests came in from Israel and around the world—high schools, news outlets, tech companies, synagogues, community centers—you name it.  I was juggling more invitations than I could fit into a single day.

I know the new families are experiencing that now and may wish it would slow down. But one day, when it does, they may find themselves missing it.

I remember the first time I stood at the gravesite on Memorial Day and didn’t cry. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me.

I know that one day, they too will question their grief journey. Until they learn that is indeed personal and indeed a journey, and they should be kind and gentle to themselves.

I remember meeting complete strangers, even in other countries, when my name alone was enough to trigger recognition of my mother’s story, her place in our collective memory and our nation’s history.

There was comfort in knowing she was part of something bigger, and that she would never be forgotten.

I know that one day, they too will feel the quietly shocking gut-punch of someone who doesn’t remember, or never knew. And with it, the understanding that they now carry a responsibility to keep the story alive.

I remember when it felt impossible to get out of bed, to function, to live anything resembling a normal life.

I know that one day, they too will feel that strange, conflicting realization that they are mastering the art of living with tragedy, trauma, loss and grief. Comforting and horrible, all at once.

Memorial Day is a powerful opportunity for bereaved families to feel the embrace of a nation, and to connect with others who carry this same loss.

For me, it is also a reminder of how long I have been part of this club and how damn heavy that still is.

Even after 25 years, I’m still learning what it means to live with this, how to carry it alongside so many others, and what this day means to me.

PS – Mommy if you are reading this, I hope you are proud, I love you and miss you.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)