When I was young, my father stood over the table in our dining room, with his sleeve rolled back, and carefully put on his tefillin, the leather worn from how much he had used them, from the daily ritual of donning them that he had never missed.
With his head swaying, Ta’s lips moved as he recited the prayers. His eyes quickly grazed over the pages of a siddur, even though he knew the words by heart, for Ta had been reading these prayers every day since he turned 13.
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