He filled the special two-handled cup with water, performing the ritual of sanctifying his hands with water before reciting the sacred blessing over bread—the beginning to any meal in a religious home, reminder of the priestly temple ritual. Only then did he tear off a piece of bread, dip it in salt, and eat, closing his eyes as he savored the moment.

She watched him proudly. “Now come try the herring, and then I’ll bring the soup with the knaidlach.” She bustled from the kitchen to the dining room, carrying the plates carefully.

“Why do you have to work so hard, Fruma Esther? You know I’m happy to eat in the kitchen.” He said this every week, knowing it was hopeless.

“Such food deserves the dining room,” she replied.

He sighed, resigned. How could you argue with that? The last thing he wanted to do was insult such food! Only after she’d served him did she put down a plate for herself. They ate silently, enjoying the food and the company as if they had been together forever.

It had been like this with her Yitzchak Chaim, may his soul rest in peace. Quiet, friendly meals where neither felt obliged to do more than just sit beside one another in a shared activity. Talk wasn’t necessary when you were married to a man for forty years. You already knew what he was going to say. More than that, you knew when he was about to sneeze and needed a tissue. You knew from the wrinkle of his nose if he liked or disliked something. And you knew when you told him a story, exactly what it was going to remind him of and how he would react. Because in many ways, you’d become one person with two bodies, your experiences, beliefs, frailties, and needs so familiar to one another that you could almost feel the others aches and worries, their pride and enjoyment, which could not but strengthen your own.

A long marriage with a compatible partner enhanced and heightened everything. Losing that person, being just one instead of two, was not like being single again; it was like being torn in half, leaving a vast emptiness that nothing else could fill. Unless, of course, you found someone who—like a long-lost puzzle piece—was so miraculously similar in shape and color they filled the void completely.

The stuffed cabbage and tzimmeskugel were next.

“Just like my Malka used to make. Geshmacked,” he complimented her. “But the tzimmeskugel, this I never tasted. Delicious!”

“It’s my mother’s recipe. And she got it from her mother.”

“They were from Poland?”

“No, Lithuania. Vilna. Descendants of the Vilna Gaon,” she said proudly.

He pushed himself back from the table. “I didn’t know. Such an important family.”

“They were. All heads of yeshivas, community rabbis. The Holocaust destroyed them. Did you ever hear of the Ponary forest?”