I sat down tonight, wanting to write  some prolific statement about this years observation of my brother’s horrific murder.  But all I did was get stuck on the number 18.  It plays over and over again in my head.  The number has always carried such weight.  Growing up in a Jewish home, there is a lot of hype around 18.

You see, mystical tradition assigns numeric value to the letters in the Hebrew alphabet and all of the letters in the word Chai (meaning “life”) add up to 18.  As a result, the Jews deemed that number lucky.  So I followed in this long-standing tradition and it felt wonderful.

I remember the first phone number that Ron and I shared, 634-1818.  I was over the moon with my good fortune to land that number!  And the fortune continued, as I opened up envelope after envelope from my Bat-Mitzvah:  $18, $18, $36 and so on – I was rolling in the dough and the luck … the number 18 had been good to me.  And so into my life I went, letting out whispers of glee, every time an 18 showed up somewhere along the way.

But this year – 18 just sucks.

Today marks 18 years that my best friend, my brother was stabbed to death.  18 years ago, the course of my life was changed in a nano-second; everything I ever knew and relied on, would be different forever.  18 years have passed since my brother took his last breath.  18 years since I have heard his voice and felt his hug.  18 years.

Today, 18 just sucks.

But the Chai.  The Chai means “life”.  And in my life today, I am surrounded by love, and kindness and compassion.  I have a child that has filled my heart and soul so deeply with pride and pure joy.  I have friends and family that inspire and comfort me.  I have a father, who is the most incredible, loyal and wonderful human being a child could wish for.  And even though I will always have a hole in my heart from the tragic and sudden loss of my big brother, my heart is fuller with all the gifts I have been given.

I still wear Ron’s necklace, the one donning his Ankh (which in the Egyptian culture also means “life”); having it with me, reminds me daily of how he lived with such passion, honor and dignity.  And in the 18 years since his death, I have done all I can to cherish his memory and live my life with his same commitment.

My dear sweet brother Ron, not a day has gone by that I don’t think of you, see your face in my mind and wish that you were here.  No words can ever describe the pain I feel and the longing I have for you.  You have not been forgotten.

Missing You Now, Loving you Always,

Squirt