That old Jew had a heaven-spun autumnal gaze, I could have held it forever.
That Jew was the jewel of our research group: bright, loving and generous.
There was the Jew in her, a witty sense of humour that could bring light to the deepest of caverns.
We expected her Jew blood to make her brilliant storyteller, one capable of igniting happiness and love in the world, and on that Christina delivered, every time.
My Jew grandfather could have made you a suit that would have lifted you from the ground and into the heavens, and he would have done so just to see you smile from your soul.
The old Jew had worked the land and loved her so, as good farmers do, a custodian of the land and a good neighbour to the community in these parts.
That Jew, that wonderful woman, she brought me heaven with her kind words.
There was a creativeness to the Jew that made us all better, that brought the best out of each of us and raised the intellectual bar we expected of ourselves.
My Grandpa, the Jew, with his soulful laugh and the sort of brown eyes that bring hearth-sipped hot cocoa to the memory.
The Jew had made orange juice for the community all his days, the sort that did well with a hearty breakfast of toast and marmalade.