Listening to Baba’s story, her words penetrated deeper than any mussar speech. Because Baba is so… real. Beneath her petite frame, my grandmother is a very powerful person. Passionate. No weak, hazy, beliefs; when Baba believes something, she lives it in every breath she takes,
“I t’s been a long time since I’ve been here!” I said as I kissed Baba on the cheek.I rummaged through the fridge and we chatted about the recent bar mitzvah of Baba’s oldest great-grandchild. That segued into each grandchild and their children with me trying to remember how many there were while pulling out gorgeous red peppers.
“So Nechamala has…” Oh no. This one I wasn’t sure about. “A whole bunch of boys right? Three?” “Three boys and one little girl” Baba corrected. I chopped sour pickles then slid my plate onto the table across from Baba who was sipping herbal tea.
“She’s very smart and resourceful” Baba added.
“Who? The little girl?” I pictured pigtails selling chocolate cupcakes.
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