She kept tiny spools of thread in metal Kodak screw-top film canisters. She had drawers full of buttons. There was a collection of multicolored rubber bands on the bedroom closet knob. But there was arthritis, clamped so tight it nearly closed her hand. There was never, it seemed, quite enough air. The humidifier was always on, the moist air always moving. But there were allergies to dust and pollen and ragweed. There was her breathing trouble.            

And always, there were bags of frozen food. Latkes, knishes. Bags and bags. And within the bags, more bags. And inside those bags, frosted tinfoil that would tack itself to your warm fingers when you tried to get at the food. There was just so much food. And soup. Frozen kreplach and chicken soup in plastic jars that she always wanted back. She was forever asking for her plastic soup jars back. Tell mom to bring with you the jars you took home last September. They were the magic jars. A miracle in our own house, dad said, the miracle of the magic jars. They left our house empty yet they always came back full.

On her headboard shelf in Brookline: a stack of romance novels with colorful, swashbuckling covers. She loves that stuff, dad said. More stacks on the shelf under the t.v. The humidifier billowed steam and eased her breathing. But the walk to Coolidge Corner was getting longer every day. There was a pain rising in her legs.

Still, there were always tubs of chopped chicken liver. And the jokes were all in Yiddish. Grandma would tell these Yiddish jokes and everybody would laugh, everybody except Shelley and me. We got these jokes secondhand, passed down to us from dad who did his best to provide a running translation over the liver-covered dinner plates. But by the time dad got to them, worked the Yiddish around and spit out the English, the humor was all but gone.

“See, okay. She’s saying — well, I’m not sure quite how to put it. It’s — literally, it’s — it means: that horse isn’t strong enough — lacks the muscles — to pull my wagon. But see, in Yiddish the word wagon...well, horse, is like... It’s a thing women say...”

Two weeks ago, I saw grandma for the last time — in her room at Hebrew Rehab. When we walked in, she awakened slowly, saw us there, and enjoyed one wide-eyed, pain-free grin before it all hit home and the weight of all her years rushed in. But for that brief moment it felt like the old days — eating soup from magic jars and dancing upside down.