I remember trips with my mom to Baskin-Robbins as a kid. She would take my sisters and me after ballet class on sunny afternoons. I remember peering over the glass counters, looking down at the tubs of creamy frozen goodness. I can't recall the names of the flavors, but the colors remain vivid thirty years later: pink, light blue, mint green, and neon orange, a work of art for my eyes designed in the colors of Easter, arranged like a box of pastel-colored chalk, illuminated b

The seats on either side of me appear empty, but I know my mother is sitting in one of them. The scent of her perfume, (why didn’t I ever ask the name? ) blends with that of the white flowers banked on either side of the bima. I can sense her eyes shining with tears. (I cry easily too; we share that.) There was rarely any physical contact—no hugs, no gentle touches–I always wondered why, but I can imagine the soft skin of her face, unlined and glowing even as she turned nine

Wherever we are, my mom and I love to go to diners for breakfast. We relish the low-key ambience, the speedy service, and not least, the...

I was always my mother’s favorite. But she was never mine. Yet, when my father died at the young age of 72, everything had to change. I...