When the days in the summer of 1973 get too hot we go over to the Shulmans. We sit on the raw wool mustard green couch in shorts, dangling our legs, the fabric scratching the backs of our thighs. The window AC blasts in the background and Mrs. Shulman brings out trays of lemonade and cookies. A framed photograph on the mantle shelf shows Mr. Shulman as a boy, at our age, ten or eleven, holding the hand of a tall elegant woman in a fox trimmed mink coat.
“How old is your grandma now?” Our grandmothers look different and it’s not just the coat.
“Dad was born in Chicago in 1947.” Ben, our friend, scratches his head. “Grandma grew up in Germany. But she doesn’t want to go back.”
“Not even visiting?” Hard to believe, we think to ourselves.
Ben has a snow globe, too. Inside, a circle of fir trees around a deer with a tiny red scarf, looking up. When we shake it, a flurry of plastic snowflakes blinds us and conceals the little scene. John tried to open the globe once but didn’t succeed. And the snow never wins, but settles back always, leaving a thin film of ice, barely visible to the naked eye.
As a librarian, Simone Kremkau spends her days organizing knowledge and making local history accessible to all. With countless stories following her home, she cannot resist weaving past tales into present-day fiction, as though they are just another layer of the now. She lives in Northern California.
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