I was standing in line to pay for my groceries and overheard the woman ahead of me ask the cashier to put some items in a separate bag because they were for her mother. I used to do that too.

It has been five years since my mother passed away. The missing her surfaces in the little moments of day-to-day life. Like buying a Greek salad at United Bakery. That and their potato soup was one of her favourite lunches. Or, passing by Neptune Drive and glancing up to her fourth floor apartment. I can still see her sitting in her special chair, wearing her pink sweater, waiting for me, or my sister to come by, and looking out the window at the stained glass windows of the synagogue.

Bathurst Street is a smorgasbord of traditions this time of year all diverging on several blocks from  Lawrence Plaza to Baycrest creating a vibrant mosaic. Men in black hats with long beards with their quickened pace and an increased sense of purpose. Students sharing pizzas and falafels for lunch at Tov Li. The elderly with walkers shuffling along the sidewalks. Mini vans and sedans vying for parking spots at Hartmans and along Deloraine. Shofars decorating the gift shop windows. Bakeries making crown shaped Challas and apple cakes, the rush to order chicken, brisket and Gifilte fish, and jars of bright gold honey. She loved it. Maybe it was a small town attitude that reminded her of her life in England, and feeling part of the community.

There was a storybook that she read to me, The Mystery of the Missing Challa. I loved it, still do, about a little girl, Bayla who helped her mother get ready for Shabbat, polishing the silver, visiting the baker, the butcher, the toy shop, the shoe shop, the fish market. As a child she would hold my hand as we went to do our holiday shopping, and visit Lolas for her shoes, and Daiters for delicious thin slices of Munchee cheese, blintzes, and a pound of creamed cottage wrapped in cheesecloth. The old man behind the counter at Strolli’s would give us a beef or potato kinish. It is these small details that bring back such sweet and savory memories. They are the things that make me hold my breath to keep back the tears. Later, I would hold her hand.

I miss her in these small moments. It is when I light her Candelabra on Friday nights and feel the presence of her hands over mine as I say the blessing. It is when one of her funny little phrases pops into my head, or I catch myself saying something that only my mother would have said. It is when one of my children reminisces about Grandma. I smile. She was always there for me. Taking my hand, showing me the way. Somehow, she still is.

I always make lunch for our family at Rosh Hashanah. I will make her apple cake. I will bring out her special dishes. And, I’ll do my rounds on Bathurst Street, and she will be in my heart and I will miss her.

Wishing you a Shana Tova. A happy, healthy and joyful New Year, and a time of peace in our world.