Grandma

 My son is scanning my family photographs to put them in my computer family archive. This is when I remind myself of my grandmother. She is in the only picture I have of her. This is a professionally taken photo of the Breslof family, my mother’s family. Grandma is grey; grey hair; grey dress; ashen grey face. I’m an infant in that photo, stretched out on an open diaper on my mother’s lap. It was probably before plastic was used to keep the diaper from leaking. Who is this grey haired old lady seated in the center, the most prominent position? She may have been 40 years old, but looks 400. I don’t remember her even though she lived with us. Grandmothers are supposed to hold you in their arms. Grandmothers are supposed to sit in a rocking chair with you on their lap. Grandmothers are supposed to teach you Yiddish (the only language she spoke). All I remember about this grandma in the photograph is that I killed her.

Did I shoot her dead? Did I stab her with a Knife? Did I push her off a cliff?  No!! My mother told me I was a naughty four year old. She ran after me while minding me, fell and died. Maybe she tripped on a crack on the sidewalk. Maybe, her shoe was loose. Maybe, Shavy pushed her. Remember Shavy, my best friend who lived next apartment. I When we had a fight, I used to chant, “Shitty Shavy, You’re a baby.”Maybe, she pushed her! Who knows?? Where did grandma sleep? Where did Grandma eat? I have no memories of grandma except for that Breslof photo and the painful memory of my mother scolding me and saying, “You killed grandma.”

Ethyl H