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 ninety. When we air...