always seemed ageless, but overnight they have aged visibly. I am struck by Mama's frailness and Papa's white hair.
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"Maybe you and Schani will be getting married after all." Mama tries to lighten our mood, allowing her eyes to twinkle for just a moment. "You are good girls. We are so proud of you."
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Folding blankets around our feet and shoulders as if we are still young children she is tucking into bed, she speaks softly of faith and hope and taking care of each other. Her eyes are sad and soft. Papa kisses both of our foreheads. He speaks a Hebrew prayer, blessing the daughters he cannot protect.
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Tolek clucks to the ponies to begin their trek toward the border, and once again we depart for Slovakia, leaving our parents behind. They stumble through the deep December snow, waving goodbye. Mama's babushka falls from her head. She places one hand on her wig, holding it securely to her head, while the other chases the air frantically, as if she is trying to hold onto one last glimpse of us.
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Our voices yell repeatedly in unison until all we have left are hoarse whispers.
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Long after they have become tiny specks on the horizon we wave, hoping they can still see us. I know that they are waving, too, hoping the same thing. Mama's and Papa's black shapes etched against the snow are engraved in my mind as if they are still there waiting for us to return, as if they always will be there, waiting.
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Tears usually taste salty but mine are bitter, frozen to the sides of my cheeks, frozen in time.
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I write slowly, lingering over each word as if the very act of pen on paper will bring my youngest sister closer to me.
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