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My father did reach out to me a number of times. I, however, could not bring myself to answer his messages. I was afraid that somehow he would rob me of the peace and happiness I had found, and reawaken old and painful memories...
After the prayers were finished, the chassid went over to one of the guests and said very quickly in a soft, murmuring voice: “Werurygoigtdy?”
I think there are certain times of the day, certain events you experience, that lead you back to a place in your memory where you realize just how deep, important and penetrating to the soul your experiences have been...
You sent the captions, pictures, and mementos with your trust of an album’s completion. And there your pictures sat. For years...
He kept it folded into a square, tight, so it could fit in his wallet. "My princess wrote it," Daddy says as he pulls a customer by the elbow...
After all, what could he teach a girl who got straight A’s in school and wanted to go to an Ivy League college? And yet, today, what I remember from college seems like a blur of intellectual trivia compared to the simple lessons of my father . . .
“Baseball is like poetry,” Dad would say, where innings become rhythms of pace and pause. Father and son, side by side, the diamond before us.
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