Obituary of Sima Aihini

Selma Aihini, Devoted Matriarch and Heart of Her Family

Selma “Sima” Aihini, a beloved mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother passed away peacefully on June 19, 2025 at the age of 92. Born on August 26, 1932 in Brooklyn, New York to her loving parents, Minnie (Kanel) and Henry Hershkowitz, she met her future husband of 69 years, Aaron Aihini, on a blind date. After a whirlwind romance, they married a few days before he shipped out to Korea. One year following his return, they renewed their vows on June 19, 1952, in a joyous wedding celebration.

Sima dedicated her life to creating a warm, caring, and loving home for her family. Her greatest joy came from spending time with her loved ones. She was always there when her family needed her, offering unwavering care, kindness and support in times of illness and strife, sometimes staying at their home for weeks at a time. She celebrated their accomplishments and triumphs, large and small, and was their biggest cheerleader.

Sima will be remembered as a woman whose unconditional love knew no bounds. She was driven by her passion for family and lived to love and care for her husband Aaron, her children, and her grandchildren. Mealtime was her love language. She made sure her children always left the table with full bellies and passed on a deep appreciation for food as a way of caring, connecting and celebrating life. During family gatherings, she quietly toiled in the kitchen until it sparkled and until the night was done. Her children inherited her belief that dessert is non-negotiable.

In the kitchen she’d hold court – chatting and laughing. From that kitchen chair, which served as command central, she’d dish out orders, family updates and unsolicited advice. She loved to play Bananagrams, competitive card games, chat on the phone and dance to music – from the smooth croon of Harry Belafonte and Frank Sinatra to the infectious rhythms of the Bee Gees and the vibrant pulse of Ugandan street music. Her taste was as rich and varied as her spirit. She would sway in the living room, shake her body in the kitchen, beckoning us to join.

Following the death of her husband Aaron in 2021, her three children had the honor and joy of sharing in the care for Sima at their homes until her peaceful passing at the home of her son Joseph.

Sima is survived by her loving children, Robin (Rich) Levandov of Belmont, MA; her daughter, Wendy (David) Hirshman of Aubrey, TX; and her son, Joseph (Barbara) Aihini of Rockaway, NJ; her seven grandchildren and her four great-grandchildren.

She will be sorely missed.

Graveside service will be held on Sunday, June 22nd at 11 am at Northern New Jersey Veterans Memorial Cemetery, 75 North Church Rd, Sparta, NJ 07871. Memorial donations are being accepted in her memory to the Tunnels to Towers Foundation by way of https://t2t.org/ or by clicking here. Please leave a condolence, light a candle, and share your favorite memory of Sima here to continue to celebrate her life and let her light shine. 

 

For those unable to attend, these were the eulogies given by family:

Eulogy from Robin Levandov, Sima’s daughter

To my sweet ma, Sima

Losing my mom has been the hardest goodbye.  It’s a pain like no other— a mix of sadness, nostalgia and gratitude.  My mom was my first love, my guiding light, my safe haven.

It’s difficult to find words to describe someone whose love was so constant, so deep and so quietly powerful.  Mom was more than just the heart of the family— she was its soul. 

She lived her life with one simple mission:  to care for those she loved.  And she did that with every ounce in her little body, with an open heart, gentle hands and a steadfast spirit that never wavered.  Her love was unconditional and knew no bounds.  She gave freely and tirelessly, not for thanks or recognition but because caring was simply who she was. 

She cared devotedly to her mother, our Grandma Minnie, through her final years, and helped raise her younger sister, JoAnn, who lived with us through high school and beyond, not to mention our challenging cousin,  diane, who lived with us during junior high school.   

There was no limit to mom’s love when it came to her family.  Yet she never made it about her.  Her joy came from knowing we were okay. Her pride came from our triumphs and from seeing her family grow.
And, through it all, she was the force behind it— always present, always giving, always loving.

But what many may not have seen —or fully understood was the depth of her inner strength.  Mom bore her own challenges and pain in silence, sometimes for decades. She carried more than her share of heartache, and yet never let it overshadow her kindness or the love she gave.  She just kept going. Not because it was easy, but because she was deeply committed to the people she loved and because she put others before herself.

That kind of strength— quiet, unshakeable and dignified — is rare.  She taught me that real courage doesn’t make a lot of noise.  Sometimes it looks like showing up every day, caring for others even when you are hurting and finding light in the dark.

In turn, I am grateful for having had the honor and the pleasure, along with Wendy and Joe, to care for our mom during her final years. She joined in our dinner parties and got to know our friends.  We laughed and cried together over our favorite TV shows.  We danced together (she in her chair), licked our plates together, and almost every morning played Bananagrams and Auston’s trickier version of rummy.  She shared her secrets with me.  And we mended broken fences.

My mom never cared much for material things.  She proudly embodied the definition of “down to earth” and found contentment in simple pleasures— watching the animals outside her window, listening to the birds, chatting with her grandchildren or friends on the phone, eating ice cream and cookies.  She had little use for fashion or jewelry— give her a pair of sweatpants, a good meal, and time with the people she loved— and she was content.   Her joy came not from things but from moments shared, hearts connected and stories that moved her.

As many of you know, my father was a big presence.  He could fill a room with his opinions, his jokes and his stories.  My mom, for most of her life, lived quietly in his shadow.  But something surprising happened after he passed— when she was 88.  None of us expected it, but there she was:  suddenly silly, sassy and sharper than ever with her one-liners.  It was like a hidden part of her had been waiting all those years for its cue and when it came she absolutely stole the show.

She became an avid exerciser— even though it was just her physical therapy.  As she would say “I have to go work out”.  She even would coax her aides into joining her, always making sure to correct their form.  I watched this transformation with both disbelief and joy.

From her kitchen chair, which served as command central, she’d dish out orders, share family updates and other gossip, and offer much unsolicited advice. There, she’d chat on the phone, read large print romance novels or join me in daily contests of Bananagrams and cards.   I never knew how fiercely competitive she could be. The little card shark!  I secretly felt bad because I found myself trying really hard to beat my little 90-year old mother.

Sima.  Simi.  Simalee.  Little Sim. Little thing.  Gram.  Granma.  The little Troubkemaker.  Little chachka matcha.  The cutest.  Gam Gam. Gram Cracker.  Skipsy.  The Little Thing.  The little character with the tiniest feet.  She charmed us all. And mattered to us in a way that deserved its own name.

If she were to come back,  I imagine in her next life she’d be something like a cross between a saint, a general, and a Roomba— loving, commanding and absolutely not leaving a speck of dust behind until everything was spotless.  I have vivid memories of us three— Robin, Wendy and Joey— little kids standing on the kitchen counter, rubbing the upper kitchen cabinets with milky Jubilee polish.  Or, more recently, she’d wag her finger at a solitary crumb she spotted  at the other end of the kitchen and I’d know to pick it up.

Sima’s legacy is not in grand gestures or loud declarations— it’s in the little things she did every day that meant everything.  It was in the cold compresses she placed on my feverish forehead, or giving me soothies as she sat unfailingly at my bedside, or her month-long visits to support me while recovering from surgery or to help with her many grandchildren.

She taught by example how to live courageously and unconditionally, how to give generously, and how to live with kindness and grace.

Today we grieve her loss deeply.   But we also give thanks for every moment we had with her, for the love she poured into us, and for the way she shaped our lives.  And though my heart is heavy with the weight of losing her, I find comfort in knowing that her love still lives within us all.

Thank you mom.
Your life was a blessing.
Your memory a treasure.
You are loved beyond words.
And missed beyond measure.

I love you bigger than the sky.

Love always,
Robin

Eulogy from Joe Aihini, Sima’s son

Mom always told me that she believed dad was a white butterfly. The day before her passing, as I sat in our living room looking out the front door, that white butterfly knocked into the door three times. Then proceeded to the upper window. With the afternoon sun brightly shining in. Through the drawn shades, the butterfly performed loops in a silhouette. I walked into her bedroom as she laid in bed and I whispered in her ear, “You can let go now, mom. Dad is here to pick you up.”

20 hours later on the day of their 73rd wedding anniversary, they were off on their next journey.

How fortunate was I to have my mom until the ripe age of almost 93.

How lucky were her grandkids to have grandma way into adulthood.

How fortuitous were her great grandkids to have met their great Nana Sima.

We opted for a small gathering of family today. Because for my mom, Sima, her family were her friends. And her friends were her family. Everyone here has that connection to her.

As a young boy, I watched her care for her folks, Harry and Minnie. Her kid sister, Joann, was more like her oldest daughter and she treated her nieces, Lisa and Sherri, like her own kids. Mom traveled regularly to Massachusetts to help care for her daughters, Robin and Wendy, and their children.

My mom was always available to look after my kids as well. They had many special moments together.

And, of course, her crowning achievement, taking exceptional care of her husband, Aaron, extending his life by 20 years.

“You’re never too old to exercise” was her mantra. She started to workout at 88 years old. Her laps around the main level of our house were legendary.

Living with mom was quite the experience. Our friends were her friends. “Who’s coming over today?” she would ask. If we were going out, it was, “Am I going?”

Barbara would say, “It’s Sima’s world and we’re just living in it.”

Barbara was also known to say, “If you want Joe to do something, ask Sima.” And… “for your mother, you would.”

A few memories, in no particular order:

• Mom taught me how to food shop
• Our drives to Sheepshead Bay to help her folks
• Drives to Canarsie to help Aunt Rose
• Sunday dinners at the home in Montville
• Saturday breakfast at my home, with lox, bagels, and whitefish in tow
• The infamous hip check she gave Barbara, staking claim at the kitchen sink
• Her delicious spinach and eggplant pies
• The first time I brought Barbara home and the 20-minute review of family photos on the wall
• Cold meatloaf sandwiches in school
• Her famous Hawaiian chicken
• Going to Shea Stadium watching the Mets play during Passover, eating Matzoh and Spinyaka
• Her personal bakery route
• The extravagant healthy lunches she prepared for my dad every day at work
• Our travels together searching for the finest shoemaker
• Boat rides on the pontoon
• Feeding her grandchildren ‘til they couldn’t move
• The pool parties she threw for Chelsea and Danielle in her bathtub
• Her beautiful calligraphy
• Her ability to profile anyone in two minutes
• Her lamb chops
• Her perfectly vacuumed living room
• Making me feel like a Michelin star chef
• Our Saturday night out: aka dinner at home with Grandma Fay and Grandma Sima together

So much love around us and a great deal of it due to my mom.

Thank you mom for the person you were and what you stood for. In particular, how it’s so much more rewarding to give than to receive.

These past several months were difficult for many reasons. Barbara, Chelsea, Regina and I made a great team. After knowing now what was to come, I would not change a thing. You deserved the best of the best care. It was my honor.

The words I have spoken do not do justice to who my mother was. But that’s ok, because she is right here… in my heart.

Sending all my love, Ma! Amen.

Eulogy from Wendy Hirshman, Sima’s daughter

For Simi, My Mother

 

You were the whisper in the morning light,

the arms that wrapped me every night.

The steady voice when mine would shake,

the calm that only love could make.

You never asked the world for more,

you simply gave, then gave once more.

Through silent storms and hidden pain,

you stood, you smiled, you loved again.

Your life was made of gentle things –

Soft lullabies and angel wings,

a thousand little acts of grace

that time itself cannot erase.

You showed me love that doesn’t end,

the kind that bends, but doesn’t bend.

A scared bond, both pure and true –

in every breath, I carry you.

Though now the world feels still and wide,

I feel you walking by my side.

In every breeze, in every star,

no matter where I go – you are.

So thank you, Mom, for all you gave,

for all the strength you had to save.

Your love was home – it always will be.

Forever my mother, my heart – my Simi.

 

Eulogy from Zack Levandov, Sima’s Grandson

Hello everyone. Thank you all so much for being here.

Today, we gather not just to mourn, but to celebrate one of the kindest, funniest, strongest, and most loving people I’ve ever known: Grandma Sima. Or Gram as many of us grandchildren liked to call her.

The Matriarch. The heart. The steady hand and the warm smile.

A devoted wife. A proud American. A loving, generous mother, grandmother, sister and friend.
A board game queen. A master of sass. A teacher in her own unique way.
Grandmama Sima was always there for us. No matter the moment. No matter the distance.
From Montville, NJ to Boynton Beach, FL, from Frisco, TX to Belmont, MA— she was always just a phone call away, and often she’d call first.
Grandma’s love was unconditional;
her support, unwavering. She showed up. Always.
She was there and held me when I was born. She was there for my Bar Mitzvah. She was there the day I got engaged. And she never missed a birthday. She was there when it mattered most.
Through every chapter of our lives, Gram stood beside me— and all of us— with the utmost pride in her eyes and love in her heart.
She maintained a strong sense of resilience that quietly guided our family. She fought for what was right. And would always stand up for others.
Grandma’s selflessness and generosity was always unmatched. And she never hesitated to share what she believed— whether you asked or not.
But just when you thought you knew what she’d say next… she would let out her signature earth shattering sneeze or a “belch”… as she would always say.
Grandma’s signature sass is something I’ll never forget— clever, quick and truly hilarious. She always knew how to make us laugh when we needed it most. Because she knew how important it was to laugh.
She loved her country. She cherished her community. And she cared deeply— fiercely— for the people in her life. If you were a friend, you were family. And if you were family, you were everything.
Some of my happiest, fondest moments with Grandma Sima were sitting with her at the dinner table— talking, laughing, catching up, holding her hand and enjoying delicious food.
Whether it was Passover in Belmont or NJ, brunch in Boynton Beach or just a casual Sunday afternoon— grandma Sima made every moment meaningful. She made them last.
Grandma was always down for a fun time— a game of rummy or Bananagrams. A family dance party. A pontoon ride in White Meadow Lake.
I’ll never forget taking her for a summer ride five years ago in my jeep on Martha’s Vineyard. The doors and roof had been removed. It was a beautiful sunny day. She was happy, thrilled and petrified all at the same time. Living life to its fullest.
No matter how chaotic the world could be, Grandma brought us all back to what mattered most: Family, Togetherness and Love.
She taught me so much. How to listen. How to care. How to laugh even when it hurts. How to hold on to joy. How to love. How to make people feel seen. The importance of family.
I would not be the man I am today without Grandma Sima.
Her legacy lives on in the way we treat others, in how we gather around a table, in how we show up for those we love.
And that fire, that warmth, that light, it’s passed on from generation to generation.
I feel a deep void today. But also deep gratitude for her life — a life that touched me and so many others. For a woman who gave us all so much.
Grandma— I love you. WE love you. And we miss you. Your laughter, your strength, your spirit— it will stay with us always.
May your memory be a blessing forever.

 

Eulogy from Jessie Levandov, Sima’s Granddaughter

 

The last three clear sentences Gram spoke to me, scattered across our final treasured moments together

were:

 

#1: “You lost weight.” (Which is funny, because no matter how many times I tried to get her on board with

breaking the Aihini/Levandov tradition of commenting on people’s bodies, she just couldn’t help herself.)

 

#2: “Loch in Kop” —whispered with every ounce of strength she had— means “hole in the head” in

Yiddish (thank you Aunt Barbara for the translation). On this particular afternoon Gram had already

stopped eating, and she was barely drinking. I sat glued to her side, asking over and over if she was

thirsty, if she would drink from the cup, from the straw, from the spoon. I was driving her crazy. “Loch in

Kop,” she said —“you’re a hole in my head— let me rest.” She was slipping away, and even then she was

still funny. But the truth was I just couldn’t bear to let her go, so if only she would drink a little water then

maybe we’d have more time. The irony is that she was the queen hocker. Her love language was acts of

service. She was a tend-er. Full of care and couldn’t rest until those around her had what they needed. I

realized then how much I am like her in this way—how does the saying go…the student surpasses the

master? Our sweetnesses are her legacy. What a blessing it is to be so deeply loved that it spills over.

May every being be so lucky.

 

#3: The last thing she said was “I love you.” Again and again. Whispered, then mouthed, then only with

her hands. This was the truest thing. I felt completely and unconditionally loved by her. We all did. Fifteen

years ago, when I could no longer tolerate Grandpa trying to set me up with this or that person’s divorced

son, my mom finally told them I was not now nor would ever be interested in anybody’s son. Grandpa and

I never discussed it, which we all know was for the best. But I’ll never forget one balmy summer night,

walking to dinner through the North end of Boston— Gram took my arm in hers. We were strolling, we

were quiet. She leaned in close and squeezed me tight and said….I want you to know that I love you no

matter what, and I just want you to be happy. It didnt hurt that my partner at the time was the child of a

rabbi. This meant everything to me and I realized how grossly I had underestimated her.

 

These last years with Gram have been some of the sweetest of my life. I feel like I got close to her in a

different and new way. Though it’s complicated, when we lost grandpa, we also gained a new version of

Grandma—a fuller, freer, sillier, sassier, card-sharkier, belly-laughing version. She was healing something

tremendous and deep—but quietly, and never in a way that imposed on other people’s experiences or

memories. She modeled that forgiveness opens up space for joy. She wanted joy til the end: to lick her

plate clean, to eat the ice cream, to be wheeled around the reservoir, feeling the breeze on her face and

in her cute cotton ball hair, to commune with the plants, the passersby, and dogs, to dance to Brazilian

music or her old favorites like her boyfriend Harry Belafonte, to sit quietly on the porch watching the birds

on the lake or in brilliant, breathtaking formation moving across the sky. We talked so much—- about her

childhood and family, did her exercises, played thousands of games of rummy with my partner Auston,

who she adored and who adored her. I slept in her bed a few times but never got any sleep because she

snored. And finally, most importantly, we got to care for her as she cared for us, all our lives.

 

Not a day passes or will pass that I don’t think of her. Her sweet face. Her cute little hands. Her cute little

shoes. The tissues up her sleeves. I love that Brooklyn, my home, was her home too— the streets, the

trees, the place that has formed me formed her too. Her home is my home too. Every morning, at home

in Flatbush not too far from where Skips lived and worked as a beautician to support her family, not too far from where she moved to be with Grandpa, where my mother was born, Auston and I rise around 7 a.m., and we play rummy over coffee, and think of our Skips. It’s our morning ritual, just like we did with her so many times. My mornings are marked by her living. My living will always be marked by hers— with care, with joy, with intention, and with love.

 

As much as I’ve been overwhelmed with sorrow these last few days, I am equally overwhelmed with gratitude. I’m so grateful to Wendy for first taking them in when they left Florida, and most of all I am grateful to my mom, to Joe, to Barabra, and to Regina, who each made it possible for Gram to stay home with her family until the end of her time earthside, so profoundly loved and held and cared for, like she deserved. I really really know that it wasn’t easy, and that it also too was a tremendous honor and joy to give to her in that way. Please know that we see you, we are so grateful, and we are forever indebted to you.

 

Gram, I love you. I can’t believe how much I miss you, already. You were the light of our lives and I’ll spend the rest of my brief and miraculous life listening, waiting for a sign from you our family will believe. A butterfly. A gentle breeze dressed in pigeons and morning light. A stranger on the train. Sit beside me for a while and tell me things. I’m listening.

 

All my love, Jessie

 

Eulogy from Chelsea Aihini, Sima’s Granddaughter

Gram <3

“My grandma was the kind of person who’d give you the sweater off her back, which she often did- and then would immediately sweep the floor where you were standing.

She was a best friend, other half, my maidel. And I was hers. We weren’t the typical best friend duo—unless your idea of a girls’ night is watching Toy Boys on Netflix, eating ice cream, and trading raunchy jokes.

So many memories come to mind, Summer boat rides, BBQs, Sinatra and Harry Belafonte playing on the deck, card games galore and memories full of sunshine, spinaca, and love. I can hear her laugh, see her roll her eyes at one of my jokes before smirking and saying, “You’re a nut—but I love it.”

She was one of my biggest supporters. She came to every play, every show, always proud. Some of my earliest memories are sitting around her kitchen table in Montville playing Old Maid with Danielle, or piling into the car with her and Grandpa for pumpkin patches movie nights, and new adventures. Every holiday, especially Passover and Hanukkah, felt magical because she made it that way. She was the glue. Strong, loving, a little stubborn, and endlessly sweet.

She showed me what it means to be a proud Jewish woman—not just in tradition, but in strength, humor, and resilience. She taught me to be aware of my surroundings (I still hear her voice saying that), to drink water—so much water—and to always show up for family.

In these last few years, I had the honor of helping care for her. That time was so sacred. I got to give back a fraction of the love she gave me every day of my life. I got to sit with her, sing with her, laugh with her, hold her hand, and remind her how deeply she was loved. 

She loved fiercely. She helped everyone. She listened. She laughed with her whole soul. She lived with love, loyalty, and just the right amount of sass.

I don’t quite know what to do without her. But I know what to do because of her. I’ll laugh loudly. Say the raunchy joke. Clean the crumbs. Watch out for people. Stay hydrated. And I’ll keep being her Chels-a-le forever.

I love you, Grandma. Thank you for every second. I hope the music’s playing, heaven is spotless, you’re dancing with grandpa and our loved ones up above. I know you’ll be sending us all much Mazel always. Love, your maidel Chelsea”

Eulogy from Danielle Aihini, Sima’s Granddaughter

 

There’s a photo of me as a baby, being washed in the kitchen sink by my grandma. And honestly, that’s how I’ll always remember her: hands-on, gentle, completely devoted. Caring for us was her joy, her calling, her love language.

 

My siblings and I spent so many sleepovers at her and grandpa’s home in Montville growing up, curled up in blankets, playing Old Maid, fighting over who got to sleep closest to gram. Eating the spread of food she put out that could feed a family of 12. It didn’t matter how sick we felt, we had to make her proud and finish every last bite. Snacking on marshmallow twists while watching out parent’s wedding video for the thousandth time. Trips to the mailbox. Taking turns with the tiny key, like it was the most exciting thing in the world. And honestly, with her, it was. Even the quietest moments felt magical with her. Watching deer from the kitchen window in Montville, just being still beside her, it was enough. Or seeing salamanders outside of their Florida house. Or as grandma called them, “LOOK, THE SALAMANDRIAS.”

 

She made ordinary things feel sacred. A meal shared. A Sinatra song hummed in the kitchen. A dance in the living room. Shaking our hips. A conversation that went on and on and on and never needed a point.

 

She grew up in Brooklyn with very little, but she somehow gave us everything. She gave us her time, her warmth, her unwavering presence.

 

Even later in life, when she moved into our family home, it felt like a gift we hadn’t realized we’d get twice. More movies. More meals. More laughter. More sassy, spicy jokes. More of her love-quiet, constant, and fierce in its own soft way.

 

She was our grandma, yes, but also a caregiver, a steady force, a model of what it looks like to love with your whole self.

 

I will miss her for the rest of my life. But I will carry her with me. The matriarch of our beautiful, Jewish family. In the way I love family. In the way I care for others. And in the way I find joy in life’s little things, like trips to the mailbox.

 

I love you Grandma. Always.

Eulogy from Sam Mitchell

Sima Eulogy - Sam Mitchell

Sima… Selma… Mom… Grandma… GREAT grandma.

Smarter than any philosopher, tougher than any desperado, and yet had endless tenderness, devotion, and loyalty towards her children and many grandchildren. 

The literal definition of “Mensch” is, “a person of integrity and honor”. I say here that Sima is the greatest Mensch I’ve ever known: someone to admire and emulate… someone of noble character. That she was INDEED.

I met Sima when I was 24 years old, so that means I’ve known her for over four decades. My own mom was already gone for a couple of years by that time and so, without me even realizing it, she rather quickly took on the role of being a mother figure in my life, just as Ron had become a surrogate father to me.

One of my favorite Sima stories comes from when Joey’s Bakery was still in its infancy in Lyndhurst and Randi and I had only just started dating. Sima had taken an instant shine to Randi, and warned me (on a regular basis) that, “You’d better be nice to that girl”. Well, on that day, an old girlfriend of mine stopped by the bakery to say hi, so of course I introduced her to Sima. Sima was acting very friendly to her; all smiles, as she was nonchalantly pumping her for information. After the visit, Sima, Joey, and I walked her to the front door as we exchanged pleasantries, but THE SECOND THAT DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HER, Sima grabbed me by the shirt and said, “You listen to me and you listen to me GOOD. If I EVER see that girl around here again, I will be on the phone to Randi so fast your head will SPIN. AM I UNDERSTOOD?” 

Taken aback, I looked past Sima to Joey’s face (perhaps for a bit of support, as I wasn’t really doing anything wrong). But Joey had that JOEY GRIN on his face (you all know the one, right?) as he told me, “You’re on your own here. ANSWER HER!” So, I turned back to Sima and very humbly muttered, “Yes, mom…”, after which she turned and stormed away from me. THAT was Sima in a nutshell: TOUGH but LOVING. The REAL boss BEHIND the boss.

One of the great regrets of my life is that my mother never got to meet Anne, because I know how much joy that would have brought my mom. But in place of that, I was able to feel that joy through Sima, as I know how much she adored Annie from the time she was born. And then Daniela, as well. 

My own mom also loved Randi, but didn’t live long enough to see us marry. What a blessing that I had Sima there at my wedding (and beyond) to experience the joy that only a mother could provide. So for that alone, I say, THANK YOU SIMA for all of the love and joy you’ve brought to me and my family over the past 40 years. We ALL love you.

God Bless the Aihini Family. Thank you for sharing Sima with us.