She’d tell you she was 4’11”, but she was including her four-inch bouffant. She’d tell me I was a maniac when I jumped up and down on the bed, shouting, “Jodi, stop it, Jodi” in her Russian accent. She’d ask why the dogs hovered at her chair, as she fed them blueberries under the table. She’d shoulder-dance in the backseat of the car to The Beatles, smiling at me in the rear-view mirror. She’d wave three bony fingers to me from her nursing home bed, their nails still painted pink. I miss you, Bubby. Today makes it 24 years. Already?

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