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On the dark December evening of the day we buried Dad, we sat shiva in a warm circle in our living room. Shiva is a Jewish tradition, a week of mourning following a death. That first night we said some prayers in Hebrew, which none of us understood, and then people told stories.
But after shiva ended that night, my two older cousins had a peek in Dad’s liquor cabinet where there were fine things like Talisker scotch.
