“Here, take it. It’s for you.” Mr. Mandelbaum pressed a book into my hands. Mr. Mandelbaum was a fixture in the synagogue. Sweet, mild-mannered, and a little stooped, the nonagenarian widower still lived independently and attended daily services, morning and afternoon. As a teenager, I had little reason to interact with him, and saw him only on Shabbat. The gift was completely unexpected; it took me a moment to process the situation and thank him.

The book was a treatise on illuminated Hebrew manuscripts, with vivid color reproductions. Mr. Mandelbaum had inscribed it to me in his aged, shaky block writing: “In memory of your grandparents wo [sic] were my good friends.” He had misspelled my name. Also, Mr. Mandelbaum’s use of the past tense didn’t make sense; he and my grandmother were still alive. Perhaps, I thought, the errors could be attributed to a bit of senility. I was touched by the gift nonetheless.

About a month later, Mr. Mandelbaum died.