Whenever I walk into your house, I can feel your presence watching over Nona, and I hear you calling out to me, “Adeeele Z,” in your crackly voice, and I can hear you singing to me, “I love Adeley and Ikey too.”
I remember one time, at the end of a fast day, I was breaking the fast with my family, and for some reason you and Nona weren’t with us. My mom made us delicious food. I thought that we couldn’t have anything else to top it off, but then the doorbell rang and there you were, standing outside holding a tray of delicious falafel made by Nona Rita. We all felt so honored that you brought it to us instead of just calling and telling one of my brothers to pick it up, after all, we only lived one house away.
Nono, it’s so sad that this happened right before your favorite time of the year—when you’d go to Aruba. I remember after you booked your tickets, about two months before Aruba, I was sitting with you and Nona in the kitchen and you started seal-a-mealing falafel. When I told you that it was way too early, all you told me was echras ba’ah (be quiet) and we started laughing, because I knew that you secretly meant, “I love you.”
Nono, the past four Saturdays in Nona’s house weren’t the same without you. It was always your job to say Havdala and recite Kiddush while nobody dared to talk. We would go to your house on a Friday, right before Shabbat, and I can still see you setting the Shabbat table, not letting anybody help you, because you wanted to do your special weekly mitzvah. You were a great man.
Now, whenever I go to Nona’s house, I give her a kiss, but then I feel an emptiness inside the house when I want to give you a kiss, too. That’s not the only place that feels empty without you. When we have Shabbat dinner with Nona, she gives us berachot, but you’re not there to give us our other berachot.
The last few months that you were here, your blessings to me changed. You started wishing me good luck at my graduation, and saying “may I find a nice man with a ‘nice tie,’ just like yours.” I miss that, and joking around with you in Arabic.
Every time I think of graduation, I think of you. I would say to you, “Nono, you better come to my graduation.” And you would reply, “hopefully.” It was almost like you knew this would happen, and, like the kind man that you were, you would never make a promise that you were not able to fulfill.
When Nona was in the rehabilitation center for her leg, it was very scary, but the only good part was that I got to spend so much extra time with you. You would eat dinner, and spend the day with us, you even slept over once. I still have the tablecloth that we put up in the window to block the sun. Those weeks were fun. I wish we had more time together.
I was born on July 9th, a nice summer day. You left us on January 9th. I wonder if that means anything. Every 9th of every month I’ll be thinking about you. Hopefully someday in the future when we are together again, you’ll put an end to my curiosity.
Nono, I cry often when I think about you. You are a lost part of my heart that I just can’t seem to let go. It seems to be getting harder, rather than easier.
We love you and miss you Nono, and you will always be in our hearts. May we be together again in the time of Mashiach.
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Adele Zago is 14 years old. This was taken from a speech she wrote about her Nono.
