Lately, though, I’ve been on the fence, trying to find that fine line between sentimental and just, well, mental

“Perks of living in a different country,” my sister said the other day,

“In my mind, Sabba will forever be at home, in Monsey, downstairs in his study, leaning over his desk, scratching out his derashos in his leather notebooks.”

Never mind that his house has been sold, and that the 60 years’ worth of possessions were divvied up between the children after he passed away three years ago.

I agree. Sabba is gone, the house is no longer in the family, but in my mind’s eye, it’s all there on Cloverdale Lane.

The house on Cloverdale had been a time capsule. A meticulous, perfectly organized, well-kept, time capsule. When my husband needed a sefer the night he stayed at Sabba’s while we were engaged, Sabba had thought about it.

“You know what, Yaakov left that exact sefer behind when he moved out.”

When he moved out… 40 years earlier. But Sabba went to look for the sefer, and it was right where he said it’d be.