Once again the date rolls round, the 24 Tammuz. Eight years, which is most of my kids' lives and nothing at all to me. To mourn is to love, no? How fortunate I was for so many years, and while I always knew that, only through loss can I feel its truth. All the time, all the time I remind myself, especially if I think I'm being unkind--it's a kind of intuitive touchstone, how my mother might have handled it, what she might have said. I miss seeing the world through her eyes.

יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא.

בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ

וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ

בְּחַיֵּיכוֹן וּבְיוֹמֵיכוֹן

וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשְׂרָאֵל

בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן

יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ

לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא

יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרוֹמַם

וְיִתְנַשֵּׂא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל

שְׁמֵהּ דְקֻדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא.

לְעֵלָּא (לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל) מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא

וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא

דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן