?On the screen, I see my brother's face, the Parisian cityscape in the background. We're miles apart, yet the sorrow in his eyes mirrors my own. It's been a week since we lost our mother to a fierce battle with cancer. A battle too short, too sudden. We're both still in shock, trying to make sense of the empty space she left behind. My brother, his voice shaking, apologizes again for not making it to the funeral. The travel restrictions, the lockdown in France, the suddenness of it all... I tell him what I've been telling myself: It's not his fault. It's not anyone's fault.
We were at the mercy of circumstances beyond our control. Our mother, she would've understood. We talk about her, about the woman who raised us, who loved us with all her heart. We share stories, we laugh, we cry. We remember her strength, her wisdom, her unfailing kindness.
In our faith, we find solace. We talk about the concept of the "olam ha-ba" - the world to come, a spiritual afterlife where the soul finds peace. We believe our mother is there, free from pain, watching over us. We might be physically apart, my brother in Paris and me here, but in our shared memories of our mother, in our faith, we find a bridge. A bridge that keeps us connected, that helps us find comfort amidst the pain. Because in our hearts, in our memories, our mother lives on.
