When I was 3, my brothers and I happily and proudly hung our Christmas stockings, embroidered with our names, on the drawer handles of the living room server. Mother and Father looked on proudly.
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.
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.
