My Parents Died Years Ago. This Is My First Passover Without Them

The process of organizing my parents' archive became a private pleasure, a soothing ritual. I would pour myself a glass of wine and pull out folder after dusty folder, eager to to find what marvels lay within: a signed letter from a famous luminary; a ship's ticket from Rome to Haifa; a recommendation for a student now a leader in their field; a picture drawn by a grandchildThis year, I am celebrating my first Passover without my parents.

Technically, I have celebrated quite a few Passovers without them. I lost my mother nearly 14 years ago, and my father six years later. But until recently, I had been keeping what remained of them stashed away in boxes in the basement. Of course, I don't mean flesh and bone; I mean manuscripts, correspondence, articles, lectures, journals, notes, photographs, official documents, personal writings - the accumulated record of the lives of two Jewish philosophers.

Now it's gone, and I am left feeling orphaned all over again.

After the 2009 death of my mother, Edith Wyschogrod, my father, Michael Wyschogrod, continued living in their Upper West Side apartment in New York City, surrounded by the books and papers that had been the companions of their lives. Upwards of 80 years old by then, he still maintained a limited schedule of classes and lectures. I traveled from my home in New Jersey to visit him as often as I could, and for a couple of years, he seemed fine.

Then, on a family trip to Europe, I saw that he sometimes became confused and disoriented. As distressing as it was to find his sharp mind diminished, there could be no doubt. The trip had been his idea; he wanted to bring his grandchildren to Berlin and Budapest to share with them the story of his family's miraculous escape from the Nazis on the eve of the Holocaust - to pass on to a new generation the tale of his flight to freedom.

A few months...