When I was five or something, at the seaside, he took me on his back and swam. I try to remember the way his shoulders felt in my arms.

At my wedding party, he took me to dance and told me: "Fly, my little girl, spread your wings and fly!"; I was thinking that he's cheesy, like he likes to be with me, and maybe just a tiny intoxicated.


When I had the little one he told me: "I wanted you so, so much to have a daughter, I'm blissfully happy now!".


When my brother and I were in school, like 7-8-10 years old, every afternoon, before Mum came home, we were on him, asking everything about anything; he would answer any question which was asked in English.


I was like 13 or 14, in the evening, in the slow time after dinner but before bed, combing my hair in my room. He passed by, and said that I was beautiful.


He never, ever slapped me, in any way, he was never mad at me. He has never let me down. He has always let me know he loves me and my brats. He never judged me. Every choice I made in my life was for him a reason to be proud of me. He told me openly how proud he was of my children.


I realize he was very handsome, but it was his duty, wasn't it, to be perfect.


On the morning of a beautiful September Sunday, three weeks ago, Mum found him by the bed, facing sunrise. I hope he saw that last sweet sunrise.


He was the first man I loved, and the longest love story in my life.
I understand how genuine is the Jewish tradition to ripe the clothes at a death.


I lost my father.


And there's no comfort.