When I was 4, I asked Mother if we’d again hang our stockings. "Of course not. We're Jews," she snapped. Didn’t we do it last year? “You dreamt it,” said Mother. “We would never do such a thing.”
When I was 17, my family moved to a new home. As we packed up my brothers’ closet, there lay our loved and long-forgotten stockings.
Not a dream.