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The other day, I came across a photo of my grandmother, or Nana as we used to call her. Born in Latvia, she immigrated to the U.S. at the turn of the last century to escape the pogroms. After that, she lived in Brooklyn alongside other Jewish immigrants. Nana was the kindest woman and one of my fiercest allies. Before her death, she gave my mom her wedding ring to hold for me when I got married. I was living in San Francisco when my grandmother died. 20 years later, I’m still haunted by the fact that I didn’t fly back for her funeral. What excuse could I possibly have had? I can no longer remember. With a heavy heart, I’ve had to forgive myself. And I hope somewhere in the astral, she and my parents do, too.
Sign by Olivia Steele [1]