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…
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