It’s hard to say what about it is more charming to me, the hilarity of it or the inescapable Jewishness of it. Mel Brooks could be any man in my family.
I still wonder, what is the right amount of time to grieve?
When your maternal grandmother dies from breast cancer, there’s this strange intersection between her health and your mother’s health and yours.
There is no guidebook or set of rules for us to follow; there is no concrete “American” etiquette around death.
I wish I could talk to my mom about the irony that, forty years later, shelves are being ransacked and we are standing in lines to buy bread.
“My father, was alive, in me—in my reflection, in my voice, in my posture.”
On space debris and a father's remains.
Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
My heart’s deepest desire was to see my mother again, yes, but also to glimpse a portrait of normalcy that I had never known in the years of her illness.
I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
I’m stockpiling sweaters because they signify refuge, collecting them like talismans though grief cannot be avoided.