In the winter, in Scotland, daylight comes late and fades early. On a January day, two years ago, it seemed as if the light never came at all. And yet the day dragged on and had no ending. On the morning of that day we had heard the terrible, numbing news from Shoval.

We’ve tried since then – without success – to make sense of how you left us, Yonatan, how – as we slept – you left us forever, our beloved Yonatan.

What are we to do now with all the love we felt for you? And the love you gave so simply - how cold it is without it!

Susie told us once that when you came home on a Friday from the army, you’d ask what had been happening that week in Maya’s life; then when your sister came in, you could talk about the things that mattered to her.

Yonatan, Maya, and Boaz

Among the things that mattered to you was the need  - so strong in you – to face each challenge with reflection, determination, and unshakeable courage.

Tough? You were tough all right! Yet the face you showed us was gentle – protective even, almost as if the grandson/grandparent roles had been reversed.

Now Shenk and I laugh – or cry – over memories we share, and for a fleeting moment you are with us again. Somehow, although we lived far apart, from the very beginning your were always close to us. Each time we actually saw you, however, it was painful to say goodbye again. One consolation was to see you at home, in a place you loved.

If I needed proof of this, I got it when we were talking, one day. “Have you ever thought of living in another country?” I asked. “Would you like that?”

“Sure!” you said, with that lovely smile of yours. “Sure, but where do you have a kibbutz?”