It’s my father’s 38th yahrtzeit, the Jewish way of marking the anniversary of his death. Jews say two things: a person’s memory should be a blessing (for those of us the living) and or may they rest in peace. The latter’s a lot easier to swallow. Memory pains us–unless we’re lucky or simple memory is anything but simple, which makes its “blessing” at the very least complicated. I loved my father, a lot. I take after him in many ways: most of what I value as good in me I see hailing from him, and I’d like to think that he’d say the same of me. But he left me. So blessing and anger somehow coexist inside of those of us who feel like we’ve survived somebody we love.