It's been two years this week since my mother, Betty Switkes, died, and we still haven't had the unveiling. Jewish custom dictates that you unveil the headstone a year after the person dies, but my father has not found the right stone or the right words to inscribe on that stone, so she rests in this unmarked grave. People who pass by this spot might suspect the person buried here is a forgotten soul, but nothing could be further from the truth. She is the focus of his obsession.
The men in our family, the breadwinners, had their eyes fixed squarely on the prize. They were staking their claim to the American Dream, and they weren't about to rest when the goyim were working. They would postpone that pleasure for one day and rest when America rests -- on Sunday.