The cake calls to me, its icing as smooth as a baby’s skin, with its 5 layers of hypnotic lusciousness. A rec room, filled with relatives telling jokes, rumbles with their laughter.  Two strapping lads keep out the people who insist on joining a private party.  

One by one, people walk over to greet me.  A few dance the jig to raucous Irish music.  

Dear God!  That one looks just like my husband with his thick head of wavy chocolate-brown hair, those deep blue eyes, and a smile that could steal the heart of a nun!  My mind meanders away, the sounds of merriment fading.

My husband, rest his soul, used the word “privileged” to describe my childhood.

 “Clara,” he’d say with a chuckle.  “You can’t go around treating the world like you own it.”

“You are my world,”  I’d reply, starry-eyed.

He’d flash that smile and say…