God, whom you have talked to each and every Shabbat, at sunset, eyes closed gently. You lit the candles, sheltered them with your hands and whispered once the blessing though your fingers. Your arms circled slowly to shepherd their light, spread it among us and across time. Head bowed and eyes covered by your fingers, once more the blessing, this time your throat still and just your lips reciting. You, the women before you, beside you, after you, with you.
Memory is a kind of prayer.
Memory is a kind of love a kind of family a kind of fusion a kind of script Memory is a kind of danger a kind of stone a kind of loom. At 76 your memory is briskly walking away form you, leaving you, and leaving us, behind. Who is remembering now. Lovingly, Ruth Ruth Mandel is the daughter of a Holocaust survivor. We Will Never See, about the Holocaust's continuing reach.