2:15am. My mind goes back, over and over again, to that moment, about now, one year ago, when Sarah suddenly woke me up, having fallen asleep an hour earlier from tears and exhaustion, right in time to watch my boy taking his final two breaths. After watching his breathing become more effortful and less frequent over the preceding 24 hours, I remember knowing, just knowing that I was witnessing his parting breaths. The moments that followed, seeing the life of our own little boy, our precious little gift, leaving his body, the disbelief of watching and holding his lifeless little body, cleaning him, dressing him, getting him ready for his final journey – these were the moments I will take with me to the grave. This, along with the moment of diagnosis, has become life’s dividing moment for me. Every experience and recollection is immediately classified. It either happened before, or after, the moment I held my boy’s dead body in my arms.

It’s been one year. I cried all the tears in the world. I listened to the saddest songs ever written. But I never seem to run out of tears. And the accumulated impact of the saddest songs in the world does not come close to deplete my sadness from its strength. I feel as though I possess an endless supply of sorrow and pain.

Listen to mum sweetie, come back home, come back to us. Come see Noam and meet little Evie, your baby sister. We want you back so much. We need you back. The puzzle that is our family will never be whole. It will forever be missing a central piece.

Last week, I wrote to a famous Israeli author – David Grossman, who, as is widely known in Israel, has tragically lost his own son Uri in the Second Lebanon war, 10 years ago. I asked him to tell me, if it will get easier…if one learns to separate the memories from the pain. His reply confirmed what I have been suspecting and fearing. That this is one wound time cannot really heal. That I must be prepared for this pain to accompany me till my last day. Most of the time, I am reasonably confident that I’ll manage to bear the pain, but from time to time, the pain is so sharp, so deep, that I find myself worried that the grief will break me. Thankfully, I have Sarah, and Noam, and in particular Eli’s gift to us, Evie, and I know that their presence will give me the strength I need and will continue to need.

I love you Eli. Know that you are never far from our thoughts and that we talk about you many times, every day. We watch photos and videos from every moment in your four year journey, we try and continue getting to know you even better through these memories. I try to remember to offer others to share my food just like you always did, and will keep trying until this becomes natural- like it was for you. Tomorrow we will light a candle at the Daycare of Dreams, with staff and parents who shared some of your journey with you, and who fell in love with you, as everyone did. And on Saturday we will go back to the park where we farewelled you last year, to have a special picnic for you with family and friends, and continue celebrating your short and sweet life.

Keep resting in peace my love. Your father who misses you and loves you very much.