By Barbara Plotkin
I nestle with my grandmother in the worn brocade chair that smells of brisket perfume. Aromatic memories I nostalgically savor swirl with stories.
“Your Grandpa just knew and drew a heart on my shoulder with his finger. I was already engaged to someone else!”
Three years and one child later, they traveled from the Bronx to the Valley of the Moon because she loved the Jack London book—and he loved her, and so they went.
My unmarked shoulder still waits. I dream of someone taking me to the Valley of the Moon. Or a valley. Or maybe, just the moon.
Concise story which says everything it needs to in a few words. Thank you.
Thank you so much!
I love this story!
Thank you, Elizabeth!
Loved ‘brisket perfume’!
Your words are beautiful! Love this story!