Color My Number  

Rummikub. My late grandmother’s set.

Tzvi pushes out his chair. “You’re going to win anyway, Mommy, why should I play?”

“You never know until you put your full power into it,” I answer.

And the dining room fades. I’m in Bubby’s small room, the lace curtain billowing in the breeze. I’m nine, and Bubby sets up her board. I fumble with my pieces, ogling hers sliding onto the cocoa-brown end table with such ease. I can’t play. It’s always Gitty, my younger sister, who wins in Othello and Uno and Sorry.

Bubby’s chin rides up in that way that says, “You’re playing,” so I drop my blue five on the first available spot.

“Yo,” Bubby says in her Hungarian lilt, as if my move is worth a small prize. “Put down more.”