The Yellow Star
I studied my grandmother’s hands. They nervously fingered the yellow star I had placed in her lap. Her fingers, roped with veins, traced the German word. They felt the cloth, worn and musty. They remembered. Remembered what, I wasn’t sure. I just knew that yellow star was much more to my grandmother than an accessory.
I had found it in the deep void that was her attic. My grandmother was the cleanest, most organized person I had ever met, yet her attic was a mess. It was a dense jungle of boxes, random nostalgia, cobwebs, dust, and I’m sure it was home to species of bugs unknown to science.
I waited patiently for the story that was sure to come. Finally, my grandmother’s mouth opened, and she began to speak in her thick Polish accent.
“I was a popular girl, like you, Rachel.
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