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“Oh, Grandma, it still needs to be cooked.” I grabbed the
spoon away from her lips.
“I used to know everything, and now absolutely nothing,”
she said in a tone of resignation.
“Grandma, am I your daughter or your granddaughter?” I
asked her.
She looked at me with a smile of sympathy. “If I’m
Grandma, then you are Granddaughter. It could not be
more logical.”
“You see, Grandma, you remember. You remember a lot of
things.”
“You are clowning around,” she was amused. “And the
second injustice,” she went on, “which your mother
suffered was that year after year, during Christmas time,
she was sitting with her nose pressed against the window
and wept when a priest going from door to door to bless
every home, passed by our house, because there were two
religions under our roof. I a Catholic and Grandpa a
Russian Orthodox. I still do not know if then I explained it
all well to her,” she got lost in her thoughts for a moment.
“I cannot imagine, Grandma, not having two Christmases
and two Easters every year.”