My sister and I meet yearly at our mother's grave. Our mom has been gone for 33 years. She's buried at Lakeside Memorial, a large Jewish cemetery in Miami. We were raised in traditional Orthodox Judaism, adhering to the many laws and observances. A Sabbath and Jewish holidays were days of rest, going to synagogue and no use of electricity. My mother kept a kosher kitchen, complete with two sets of dishes. When I became an adult, I gradually stopped adhering to the rules. The process of letting go of living a Jewish lifestyle was difficult emotionally. As a child going to a religious school, I believed in the Jewish God who set up 613 commandments for the Jewish people. And I was taught I would be punished for not following them. The problem, though, was that I couldn't follow the rules. I was hungry on Jewish holidays when I was supposed to fast for 24 hours. So I snuck food when no one was looking. I left the synagogue to play with friends instead of staying inside and praying. I rebelled against anyone who told me what to do or what not to do. Eventually, I had to follow my own path. I didn't go to synagogue on Sabbath and holidays. I didn't follow all the strict food rules. And I dressed the way I wanted to, which was usually jeans and t-shirt, instead of the long skirts and wigs the women in my community wore. I desecrated the rules of modesty. I was an outsider to my tribe, and became part of a more artistic, free spirited and creative community of friends. My sister and I fought a lot as kids. We shared a bedroom. Occasionally we talked and laughed. But mostly we argued. She got me into trouble for leaving tissues on the floor and listening to the radio way past my bedtime. She tattled to our mother, and I got hit for misbehaving. I hated my sister for that. We're both grandmothers now. My sister still maintains the Orthodox Jewish lifestyle like our mom did. Other than family deaths and weddings, the only time I see her is when we meet at the cemetery to visit mom. I always have trouble finding my mom's grave. I drive into the cemetery, go straight for two blocks, right on Galilee. Is it left at Sinai? Mommy, where are you? I call my sister for directions. She always knows where the grave is. She gets there first. She was more like my mother. Both of them rule followers. I'm sure my mom liked her best. They had more in common, enjoyed being in each other's company. My mother and I constantly argued. My sister was all dressed up and waiting for me at my mother's grave. She wore her religious, married-woman-mandated wig called a sheitel. It was stylishly coiffed, and had blonde highlights. She wore our mother's diamond earrings, watch, and wedding band. A long black skirt and a silky beige top covered her arms. Modesty, covering of the body, is an important Jewish law. She looked pretty. I was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt with a logo of a woman running with a wolf, and my favorite jeans with holes at the knees. My hair was in a messy ponytail under an old straw hat. I didn't wear any of the jewelry my mother left for me. It wasn't my style. My sneakers were covered in paint from art class. My sister brought a few little rocks, which she placed on top of mom's tombstone, which is a Jewish tradition. Then she opened her black prayer book and began mumbling the prayers for the dead. (Maxine sings the prayer in Hebrew.) I searched the ground for a few rocks. I would have liked to bring a more personal object, like the small crystal heart sitting on my bookshelf. But I forgot. I opened my backpack, looking for something special. I found a little square candy wrapped in gold foil. Mom loved candy, but she rarely allowed herself to eat it. I snuck the treat onto the top of the gravestone and covered it with leaves. I took off my sneakers so I could feel the earth. My sister glanced at me, stopped her prayers, and said, "You can't take your shoes off in a cemetery. You're walking on Mommy!" I ignored her. The ground felt cool under my feet. It made me feel closer to my mother. My sister went back to her prayers, and I felt good about my contribution to my mom's tombstone. Before exiting the cemetery, we symbolically washed our hands. There is an old-fashioned water pump for this ritual. Years ago, we named it the Helen Keller pump. As kids, my sister and I loved the movie, The Miracle Worker. We stood at the pump like always. I washed my hands first, and imitated Helen Keller slowly saying the word "water." My sister washed her hands next, saying "water" the same way. We suddenly laughed, and our laughter just became hysterical. I know making fun of someone with disabilities is mean. I know better. So I'm always ashamed. It's also sacrilegious, so seeing my sister break a rule makes it devious and fun. In those moments at the pump, I always feel a deep connection to my sister. All our differences seem to dissolve in the cleansing water. And suddenly we are two young little girls. Sisters laughing together.