The Ones Never Forgotten

By: Malkie Gordon Hirsch-Magence

Of all the people who knew my brother-in-law, Daniel, I feel like I’m the last one who should be writing about him.

I didn’t know very well until a devastating illness brought his family together in a way I had never witnessed in my four and a half decades on this earth.

But maybe that, too, was by design.

There’s a Jewish saying that Hashem sends the cure before the illness, that He brings the doctors, the support systems, the people, and the treatments long before we understand why we’ll need them. And in some quiet, unassuming way, my entrance into this family before Daniel’s untimely passing felt like a part of that plan.

That’s just the thing, though. Life circumstances like these either distance people from one another or bring them closer. And sometimes these situations draw people even closer than they already were.

Many of the stories about Daniel—his humor, his legendary one-liners—are things I learned secondhand, not something I had the privilege of witnessing personally. Still, I felt a bond with him. It made me even more certain that Hashem places people in each other’s lives with intention.

Daniel took a particular interest in my life, in my journey as a young widow, as a new member of his family when I married his brother. Daniel would ask me questions about what my children remembered about their father (who was taken at just 40 years old) and I understood what he was really asking. I knew what he was afraid of.

And I also knew it was a fear he didn’t need to carry.

When a man who worked as hard as Daniel did—on his relationships, his business, his children, and his community—suddenly leaves the world too soon, it’s only natural to wonder if their life matters long after they are gone, if their stories would endure, and their memory would linger in the hearts of their loved ones.

I would stop to speak to him at a simcha here and there, exchanging pleasantries, and while once I had only known him in passing, I soon found myself expressing to him a profound truth.

Children who lose a parent at a young age still hold on to them. They gather memories the way a child gathers fireflies in a jar—small glowing fragments of something magical. Even the pieces they didn’t experience directly become part of the story they carry, part of what makes their father the best father in the world.

It’s impossible to forget Daniel.

Even without knowing him the way his family and friends did, it’s clear to me that he was a man who made his mark—quietly, but undeniably.

He was also uniquely, unmistakably himself. There was a quirkiness to Daniel that made people smile, the kind of detail you don’t forget. On Sukkot, instead of traditional ushpizin, he designed his own St. Louis version, complete with legendary sports figures from his hometown. It was so specific, so thoughtful, and so him. He also had a thing for the most bizarre, exotic-flavored potato chips, and a loyal love for Dr. Pepper from QuickChek or Wawa. Small, funny details that end up saying everything.

Daniel grew up as the youngest—nearly a decade behind his brother, my husband—bookended by older siblings, with sisters in between. He shared a room with Jeremy and, in many ways, shared his world too, doing things at six years old that kids his age were not doing, like staying up late to watch TV alongside his much older brother. He gravitated toward his older siblings and their friends in a way that made his quiet, serious nature seem older than his years.

He loved sports—especially basketball—and that love lives on visibly through his children, who each carry it forward with their own school teams.

He was the kind of friend whose presence drew people in, whose friends showed up day after day, week after week, even before he could no longer express himself the way he once did. At one point, I asked one of his close friends—one of the six who rotated visits throughout his illness—what Daniel said or did to inspire friendships that lasted a lifetime. They answered simply that Daniel would have done the same for them. He was that kind of person.

He was the kind of father his children always wanted to be nearby.

And as I sat with him, I made him a promise that he would not be forgotten.

As things became more difficult, the love around him only grew stronger. His siblings continued their daily Nishmat calls, and even in the midst of his illness, Daniel held tightly to his own routine: waking up, davening, and joining his siblings over Zoom to recite tefillos in the merit of his recovery. His connection to Hashem and his love for Yiddishkeit remained inviolable. If anything, they only became more visible.

Friends came to help him wrap tefillin when he no longer had the strength. Their constant care, devotion, and presence were palpable—and humbling.

And that kind of love doesn’t disappear.

It lives on—in his children, in the family he loved so deeply, and in his friends who showed up for him in ways that will never be forgotten.

Because people like Daniel don’t really leave. They remain through the lives they touched, the memories they created, and the love and yearning for their presence that continues long after they’re gone. 

Yehi Zichro Baruch. 

Malkie Gordon Hirsch-Magence is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of 5, a writer, and a social media influencer.