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...

Bottles of the finest Scotch lined the oak-paneled wood walls where Dad and I sat at the bar in a bay side restaurant looking at the...