It was an early autumn afternoon, and it was just the two of us at Jonah’s backyard jungle gym. This grandson, with the thatch of dark brown hair, always has had a special place in my heart because he is in that unenviable middle child position in a family of three boys.
The project is so monumental that we’ve put if off for eight years. And that’s a lot of procrastinating.
I try to resist.
The extra leaves for the dining room table have been dusted off and jammed into place. The 18 unmatched chairs are being assembled around that table in a dining room that seems to have shrunk since last Rosh Hashanah. A huge brisket is in the freezer, hogging up space.
Our neighbors are down the shore.
When my husband and I left on our honeymoon decades ago, we proudly carried the matched luggage that his sister had given us as a gift. The two suitcases were handsome indeed — a strong leather set in pale taupe with shiny locks.
His name was Irv. I was so predisposed to dislike him that I even found fault with his name.
My heart is pounding.
On so many Mother’s Days, I gave my mother dainty earrings in little boxes wrapped in pretty paper. I would choose those earrings with care to match her green eyes.
We were leaving the hospital with our first baby, a red-faced daughter who weighed less than a sack of potatoes, when we encountered a friend who is a doctor.