today, I mourn not only those who died, but all those who will never know Judaism because of the Shoah.

I mourn the world we could have had, the community, the people, the joy, the magic, the heart.

All that was taken from us that we can never rebuild.

I mourn for those whose parents and great grand-parents hid their Judaism, or walked away from it, and their children, and their children's children begin to walk up the path that was intentionally shut to keep them safe.

I mourn the languages, the synagogues, the kosher stores, I mourn the communities, the libraries, the homes, I mourn the lives that will never be because of the Shoah.

I mourn the stories, poems, and folktales that will never be uttered, the jokes, the prayers, the rhymes and riddles that will never be heard, I mourn the superstitions, the incantations, the hexes and jinxes that will never again be cast.

My heart aches as I mourn for all that could have been but will never be because of the Shoah.

But as I mourn, I open my arms to the future that we can build together. We hold with us all that we have lost, we keep it with us, we light a candle, and we carry it.

I create and hold spaces for all those who wish to return home. All those who have the faintest memory of a folk story they heard at the knee of their great grandparents. For those who seek a home in Judaism, but are afraid. We are here.

This Yom HaShoah, I remember it all. I mourn for each soul taken. Each life lost. Each memory forgotten, each story never spoken aloud.

We mourn, we hold the space, and we continue.