I watched Grandma Rosie’s eyes as ten-year-old-me asked if I could watch TV while we waited for the dough to rise. I watched her mouth form the words, “Yes of course, Bubbelah.” And then, while the younger version of myself hurried up the stairs, I tried to hold onto Bubbie. “I’m sorry I left you to make the bread,” I told her. I felt myself grasping at the edges of the memory. Ten-year-old me didn’t have any more memories of Bubbie here. She just had memories of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Specifically, the episode where Sabrina tells her friends she’s a witch. The threads were unraveling
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