Most of all, I thought about how much he struggled with his long illness in those final years.
It's tradition for visitors to the Western Wall to scrawl notes with their hopes and dreams and stuff them into crevices between the ancient stones. My note today, though, was a note of gratitude.
"I'm glad my dad is finally at peace," I wrote.
Waiting for me back in Atlanta when I return in a few days is someone who will never meet my father.
Our second daughter was born a few weeks after dad died. People say she has his eyes, his cheeks, his smile.
Her name is Brooke. She's named in his honor.