It is hard to imagine our elderly Bobby any way other than the way we see her: an old, opinionated, somewhat stern, yet always loving nanny,
S he is an immigrant.
Her English is stilted her H’s heavy with a Russian “ch” sound so when she answers the phone telemarketers are unsure how to proceed when they hear “Chello.”
Despite our young age she pushes us to order pay conduct the exchange so she’s spared from speaking spared from the embarrassment that follows her like a shadow.
Her face is a cobweb of wrinkles of wisdom; her skin soft supple a shade of coffee. She lets me play with her sparse graying hair as a reward for when I am good and when I don’t cooperate I receive a firm loving stilted lecture about the importance of listening.
We are on a strict schedule: nap after school a quick snack and then playing outdoors. We can set our watches by the 6 p.m. call from our front porch for dinner. Hands must be washed every last bite must be eaten off our plates despite protests.
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