Last Sunday, I attended the annual commemoration of the Holocaust at Temple Emanu-el in New York City. It made me sad -- indeed sadder than I can remember ever being after attending the somber event in the past few years.
At one point during the commemoration, as they have done every year, there is a candle lighting during which thirty-six candles are lit by thirty-six women who survived the Holocaust. My mother has lit one of those candles every year for as long as I can remember. Over the years, I have witnessed able and up-right women -- each with an incredible story -- walk up the steps and across the august stage at Temple Emanu-el to light a candle.
In recent years, I have become increasingly aware of the creeping frailty of age that overtakes these women. This year, I cried.
And, perhaps most significantly, this year was the first year that there weren’t thirty-six women to light the thirty-six candles.
It is a vivid visual reminder of a generation that is leaving us.