“Hi, Bobby,” I said mentally. Then I froze. For the first time during the shivah, I felt overwhelmed
Bobby died. We’d been waiting a while for it to happen, said goodbye years ago, Alzheimer’s and all that. My husband poked fun that I’d bawl my kishkes out when it actually happened because I was so blasé during the years of her illness. I agreed. I was probably faking flippancy, because how else could I adjust to the reality that Bobby wasn’t going to be here one day?
I grew up next door to my grandparents, and Bobby fulfilled every Hungarian grandmother cliché, the way she cooked, baked, sewed, hosted, doted, all that stuff. Living next door, I got to witness it all. Unlike my cousins who lived in Flatbush or Monsey, I was there every day.
There were the few years that I got home from school before my mother, so I’d hang out at Bobby’s, watching Bill Nye the Science Guy and Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? There were also the weekly grocery trips; my grandfather would call us over to bring up the bags, and he often gave us a generous tip after.
Bobby was a tough cookie; she didn’t suffer any fools. Her voice was a bit hoarse, and she wore awful pearly nail polish. She also endlessly read shallow novels. I’ve since forgiven her for that.
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