We argued whose turn it was to spend Sundays with Zeidy
His walk was a shuffle, the result of years of hiding underground in war-torn Europe, of carrying the lost lives of his family — his father, mother, siblings. He was stoic, never spoke about the years of horror, of unimaginable suffering, but the nightmares gave him away; twisted, damp sheets around a body that refused to forget.
Zeidy was generous with the little money he had. From his pension, he wrote out ten checks for $10 each to various tzedakah organizations every single week. He loved treating us to goodies, bringing us to Avenue J in Flatbush. He had a sweet tooth and wanted to pass that on to his grandchildren. We all knew he had the same breakfast every day for years: a pastry and a cup of coffee with two teaspoons of sugar.
And every Sunday, he made the trek by subway from Williamsburg — where he still lived independently all through his eighties — to our old house in Brooklyn, to see us, spoil us, have breakfast with us. I remember how my small hand fit into his calloused one, his long, hard nails discolored and warped with time.
He always smelled of soap and old age, a musty scent that gave away the true years behind his facade of perfect health. A linen handkerchief lived in his pocket, a relic from a time when things were treated well, and expected to last. His cheek always sprouted a light stubble, whiskers protruding in odd spots and at strange angles.
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