I wrote my letter, wishing for health and happiness, writing names in Hebrew and using mothers' names when I knew them. My son led the list, along with my brother, my late mother (Shirli bat Chava, which sounded close enough to Shirley daughter of Eva), and others who had suggested the visit, and those who I simply wished all good things for.

Afterward, the group from Stamford changed into plastic shoes and walked on a fenced-in path under grey skies to the building that had the tomb of the Rebbe and his father-in-law. Separate entrances for men and women separated people, although there was nothing like a mehitzah. I read Psalms 50, corresponding to my age, and then very quietly read my letter. People stood around a square pit, or tank, about 15 feet on each side, into which they placed their letters. I saw thousands of pieces of paper, mostly in Hebrew, nestled together in front of the headstones.

I read my letter and concentrated on each name -- who they were, what they meant to me, the relationships we had and how they evolved, my hopes for the future for all our lives. As was the custom, I tore my letter in pieces and let them drift to the join all the other thoughts and hopes from my fellow Jews.

The pieces fell so I could just see the words "my son" facing upward.

The act -- the place -- had enormous emotional power. I felt no distinction, no distance, between myself and the people around me, whatever their affiliation. That's extraordinarily rare for me. Together we stood and faced primal matters of life, death, love, hope, separations and reconciliations, what was and what will never be again, and what was and may be again, in this world or the World to Come. That's a matter for the future.

And that future arrives, every day.