I was shocked by that scream, and in that moment I knew that Bubby was human— and I could be human, too
O
n the fourth floor, apartment 4N, there’s a maroon door that’s shut in my face.
It’s Bubby’s door. On the other side I should find her at the wooden kitchen table, her apron smeared with chocolate, pouring sugar, then flour, into a bowl and, like magic, a four-layered, pink-frosted cake should appear in my little hand and tingle my taste buds.
I regularly travel from Montreal to visit family in Boro Park. In days past, I always stepped into Bubby’s house with hubby and the kids. There hadn’t been no more cakes for over a decade, but there were five dollar bills that Bubby pressed into each child’s hand.
Bubby’s been gone for a year now. For the first time since her passing, I walked up the four flights of stairs, alone, for the nostalgia, as if I could reclaim Bubby just by staring at her front door.
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