If only I could walk across water. Even then, it would still be 7,120 miles, so maybe it wouldn’t work. Yet I would give anything to be able to go there and back as I please.

Don't get me wrong, I’m lucky enough to be able to fly to Israel quite a bit to see them, but still, it’s nearly impossible to shake the feeling of envy and desire to be at that table for Shabbat dinner every Friday night with my family, whom I love so much.

A few days ago, it was my Saba’s 92nd birthday, and we weren’t there. My dad, his son, didn't get to be there. Instead, I was sitting in class, hoping to God I’ll get to be there next time. For now, I’ll just watch the Instagram stories my cousins post of them singing and dancing with him. “Next time” is such a scary phrase to be saying about family miles and miles away, when you never know if they are ever truly safe.

The thing is, these aren't just normal old-people grandparents. They were and are so much more than that. They have a sense of humor unlike a lot of older people I know. My Safta, whom I miss greatly, didn’t speak English. My sister and I aren’t great at Hebrew, so she did the only thing she could. My Safta would communicate with us using “meows,” since she loved cats a lot, and that was a “language” we all had an equal understanding of. This may seem odd to most, but looking back, it was one of my favorite parts of the whole trip.

Although I have one of the best Bubbys possible, just a ten-minute drive from my house, it really isn't the same as being there with all 11 of my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Almost everything in life, good or bad, has its opposite, the yin to its yang. Although this situation is more sad than happy, there is still a positive side to it:

Since we live so far from my family and don't get to visit every month, the times when I'm lucky enough to go there and see everyone are so incredibly great. The distance and limited time together make the few times we are together so much better, but it also makes it hurt so much more when I can't be there or when I have to leave. It's hard when they are just far away, but when you start to lose them and eventually do lose them, it's even harder.

My Safta passed away a couple of years ago, and I just remember feeling full of regret and sadness that I wasn't there and didn't get to see her one last time, one last time to hear her “meow” to me as if we were having a real conversation. At the time, she had severe dementia and couldn't really remember who I was, which also hurt because it made me feel that if I had been there more, she might've been able to remember me.

Then again, there is no solution to this problem, and if you are in the same situation as I am, I mean it when I say I’m sorry.

Maybe next year I won't be celebrating my Saba’s birthday 7,120 miles away. Hopefully, I’ll be just a few steps away instead.