I was sitting on the flat rock, outside our small mountain cabin. It was August. The weather was gorgeous-warm, but, surprisingly, not humid. The phone had been ringing a lot that weekend, and I knew that my mother was sad. I heard distantly, as the phone rang again. I heard my mothers' voice. And I knew.

My grandfather had just died.

I stayed on the large rock, watching the creek slide by. I thought of him. His smell-like cigars. His laughter. And I got scared.

I got scared, not because I was afraid of death, or his dying.

I got scared because I was afraid I'd forget him. Would I remember his voice? His silly stories? What would happen to him if I forgot? I was eleven when my grandfather died. I've forgotten exactly what his voice sounded like. I've forgotten what he looked like-I used to be able to close my eyes and see him as if he was sitting next to me.

The truth is, being worried about forgetting wasn't an irrational fear. I was right to worry that my grandfather's eyes would, in the photograph of my minds eye, disappear. But I was wrong to assume that this would mean that, in the forgetting, he would disappear.

Because he can't disappear. He can't disappear, because I remember how much he loved me. I remember that he smelled like cigars-to this day I still love that smell. I remember that spoiling his four grandchildren was his life and joy. No, he has not disappeared, not in the way my eleven year old brain and heart feared.

It's a fact of life: we are likely to forget details. If we can't remember where we put the car keys, we can't expect to remember every detail, of every moment, with our loved one. That memories fade, over time, is natural. While, as an eleven year old, I feared that fading memories would mean that I would forget my grandfather, now as an adult, I know that my fading memories are not a sign of forgetting. While you may not remember, exactly, what your mother's hands looked like, you know how lovely it felt to hold it. You may not remember that exact tone of your husband's contented sigh after dinner, you know how nice it was to hear it. You may not remember the exact moment you sent your sister into gales of laughter, but you know that laughter was a tonic to your soul. You may not remember the time that your brother taught you to ride a bicycle, alone, but you do know what his encouragement has meant to you.

Each of us here today knows that memories fade. But we know as well, that our beloved--spouses, parents, and other loved ones-- have not disappeared. Even as we grieve that their tangible presence is no more--and wish that they could be here with us today-we know they are with us. Their death took their physical presence away, but they are with us.

On Yizkor, we ask God to help us remember that they are with us. The word Yizkor, is in future tense: will remember. Why? To reassure us that we will remember the important things; we will hold onto their essence, their spirit, as a part of us. We will remember all that they taught us. We will remember their values. We will remember how it felt to laugh with your wife; to cry with your husband, to hug your child. These memories are the pieces that comfort, and reassure that they are, in part with us. They will never be forgotten, for they are now a part of us. I paraphrase from our prayerbook: “ no one is really alone. Those who live no more echo still within our thoughts and words. . .”

Perhaps memories are like photographs. There was a time when photographs were fragile. It is only a very recent phenomenon that photographs can be stored on disks or had drives that ensure they exist, intact, forever. Before this innovation, photographs, over time, would diminish, and the image would seem to be ebbing away, losing its crisp edges. Those photographs, to me, are like our memories. The picture exists-just not in exactly the same way it did, perhaps, even a year, or a few months ago. The snapshots in our brain, too, have lost their crisp edges. But, like a faded photograph, the memories, even without their crisp edges, are still with us, reminding and informing us of our loved ones' lasting legacy.

Memories, even if they are not as sharp as they once were, still offer us warmth and comfort. We still hold onto the legacy left by a grandparent; the lessons shared by a devoted father; the encouragement offered by a doting mother; the tenderness experienced by a sweet child.. . That they touched us verifies that they can never disappear-for their touch, their influence, is with us. And we will know we will always remember.

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