I have seen photographs of Myron’s bar mitzvah. There is one taken of a thirteen-year-old Myron with his father on the bimah. It is the part, Myron explained to me, where the father blesses the son. Myron says he can’t remember exactly what his father whispered in his ear that day—something about loving him and praying for his health and happiness—but he remembers the smell of his father’s Old Spice and the way his father cupped the back of Myron’s head with his palm, just like this, just like I am seeing now, a distant echo traveling over the years, a sign that one man is still the father and
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