Another memory floats by without warning: my mother and me, after a dip in the water. My teeth are chattering. My fingers are raisins. I want to rush toward my towel. But my mother tells me softly, “We don’t run to our towels; we walk. That moment distills her essence for me: a hint of old-fashioned formality—a proper woman should know how to carry herself—combined with an implicit imperative. Hold your head high, was what she was really telling me. Take your time. Soon it won’t be this cold. —Ruth Margalit

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