“Who will laugh with me when I mention Kalman’s name? Who will chuckle at the memory of the broken vase that I hid under my pillow?”
Fresh, green grass peeked out shyly from between the tombstones, and I thought it strange. A cemetery didn’t seem the place for rebirth and renewal. Rows of silent sentinels stood guard over sacred memories. The air was silent; eerily so. A lone bird perched atop an imposing ohel, following my movements with its beady eyes. It seemed to contest my right to introduce human frailty in this eternal domain.
Bubby grasped my hand tightly. Her eyes were closed and a procession of tears marched down her wrinkled cheeks. Behind her closed eyelids, what did she see?
“Tzippy.”
A deep breath; an attempt to steady her trembling voice.
“Tziporah’la … Chaim was so happy that you carried Mama’s name. It meant so much to him. Reminded him of Mama, wearing her faded pink apron. Now I have to remember on my own.”
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