MY FAMILY TREE

“I want that.”
“And that.”
“Oh and that too.” I heard myself saying to my Uncle as we Face timed on the phone this past month; and though I could hear a voice of reason whispering inside of my head, my heart was the voice that seemed to be speaking for me.

“You’re meshugana,” he kept saying, partially amused, but I could hear his own pragmatism speaking, my new voice of reason that once served as second fiddle to my Grandfather. My uncle had become my Grandfather’s replacement in his quest to redirect my need to hang on for dear life the last remnants of history.

I don’t care how crazy it is, I thought and I said. I want whatever no one else wants in addition to the things I already had my claim on since I was a little girl. The amazing perfectly square 1950’s marble coffee table, where my memory of my five year old self is standing in front of it, waist high, my little hands dipping matzo into chopped chicken liver.

There were the sterling silver forks, knives, spoons that no one used, not even for special occasions, because it was likely too much of a pain to clean. I wondered if my grandmother had ever used them, even after she received the shiny treasures, probably as a new bride. Perhaps it went into the category of belief systems that they could only be used for special occasions because they were too special to use otherwise. I will never know.

There were the lamps- copper and brass- that had served many books and television shows and lit the rooms…