In Loving Memory Of Alan Kenneth Liebowitz - A Light That Still Shines

Alan was not merely a child remembered through grief. He was real, vibrant, brilliant, and full of life. If not a genius, he was certainly far beyond his years. Even as a little boy, he possessed remarkable mechanical ability, much like our father, Sidney Liebowitz. I remember once, when Alan was only five years old, watching him stand at the front window of our modest Miami apartment with a screwdriver in hand, carefully reinforcing a loose screen as though he were already a grown craftsman.

Our parents were still very young then, barely in their mid-twenties, raising two boys while building a life together in Florida. Dad’s parents had helped them with a yearly tax-free gift of $3,000 — enough in those days to purchase a brand-new 1962 Chevy Impala. Dad, a proud real estate salesman, would drive prospective clients through sunny Florida communities like Melbourne and Port St. Lucie. To me, that Impala seemed elegant beyond words.

Sometimes Dad had to travel for weekends to entertain clients, leaving Mom alone with Alan and me. Oddly enough, those weekends became little celebrations for us. We would shop at Kwik-Chek — long before it became Winn-Dixie, “The meat people.” I still remember those enormous Hershey bars that cost only thirty-nine cents. By the time Dad returned home, all evidence of the chocolate had mysteriously disappeared.

Those early years held such innocence. I had attended elementary school briefly in Brooklyn before we moved to Miami, and I can still remember the paper bags Mom packed with chocolate chip cookies for my lunch.

Then everything changed.

Alan became stricken with the most malignant form of brain cancer. After months in the hospital and a prolonged coma, he eventually returned home — but forever altered. Years later, Mom confided something to me that I have never forgotten. She had been sitting beside Alan’s hospital bed, crying quietly while he lay motionless, his eyes closed. She prayed with every ounce of her being. Then suddenly, while still in the coma, a tear rolled down Alan’s face.

"This story took 1 hour and 20 mins to write, I believe it was a gift from G-D" Ira Liebowitz

Mom later asked him, after he awoke smiling brightly from that long darkness, “Alan, why are you smiling? Why are you happy?”

And Alan answered:
“Because I want you to be happy.”

That was my brother. In Hebrew, one might call him a “gita neshuma” — a truly kind and beautiful soul.

Alan eventually came home to the care of our maternal grandparents, Eddie and Sally Altner. A hospital bed had been placed lovingly in their home, complete with raised rails to keep him safe. He had to relearn basic coordination and simple mechanical tasks — a heartbreaking reality for a child who had once been naturally gifted with his hands. Yet he endured it all with quiet courage and dignity.

Though his physical abilities had been devastated, his mind remained sharp. Looking back now, I cannot fathom the strength it must have taken for such a young boy to endure so much with so little complaint. Like our father, who had proudly served in the U.S. Army before we were born, Alan cherished carrying his small army-green canteen.

Years later, I too entered military service, enlisting in the United States Air Force. During my four years stationed at a military hospital in central Illinois, I learned the routines of patient care and therapeutic diets. I also learned every word of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” I remember singing it repeatedly for an elderly couple after the husband told me it had been their wedding song more than forty years earlier.

Dad was proud of my military service. I often think Alan would have been proud too. Perhaps he himself would have enlisted one day. I believe he would have excelled at serving others.

Now, through the mist of years and tears, that terrible day seems both distant and impossibly near. Yet Alan is not truly gone. In that inner sanctuary where life stores all beautiful things — sugar plums, red Macintosh apples, babbling brooks, gladiolas, and the Easter lilies that once bloomed in our yard — there too rest the memories of my brother.

They remain illuminated still, glowing like the eternal lights of a Hanukkah menorah.

And for that enduring light, I thank HaShem.

Alan Kenneth Liebowitz & brother Ira Liebowitz