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Lizzie

The sound of a truck backfiring woke me like a gunshot. Taking in my surroundings, I sleepily remembered that I was at Grandma and Grandpa’s for the weekend. The guest bedroom window faced Sherman Way, a busier street than the quiet residential one where I lived with my parents, and I often woke with a start to the sounds of an unfamiliar neighborhood. I turned over in bed, saw that it was 6:50, and felt my stomach rumble with hunger.

In the gray morning light, I got out of bed and traversed the short hallway to the master bedroom where my grandparents slept peacefully. I made my way to the right side of the bed and studied my grandmother’s sleeping face, freckled like my own. After a moment, I lightly touched her arm and whispered, “Matzo meal pancakes. Grandma, matzo meal pancakes.” She stirred and opened her eyes, reaching with one ever-shaky hand for the glasses on her nightstand.  Glancing at my grandfather, she slowly got out of bed and put on her familiar house robe, took my hand and led me quietly out of the room.

As my grandma prepared my favorite breakfast in her small townhouse kitchen, we chatted about school, about what I would do that day with my grandpa, and about books. A sometimes-harsh and always-stubborn woman who could be the sweetest you’ve ever encountered or take you down a peg with her pursed lips, Grandma had a soft spot for me as her youngest grandchild and didn’t bother to hide it from the rest of the family. Those mornings with my grandmother are some of the fondest memories of my childhood, and her constant affirmation that I was the smartest and prettiest little girl in the world certainly made me feel that, if nothing else, I was the most-loved. (more…)