“You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery with a tattoo. End of subject.” She’s eating gefilte fish out of the jar with the same spoon she used for her diabetic strawberry jam. Yuck. It’s 1986, and I’m a brooding teenager who’s already irritated with the world when she decapitates my plan to deflower my left ankle when I turn 18. My Grandma Bertha. Jewish. Rounded. Diabetic. Typically jolly, but when it comes to our ancestry, she’s no joke. Especially at the mention of anything German, like cars, Bayer aspirin, or pumpernickel. I’m a virginal sixteen-year-old who plans to spend senior year fleshing out tattoo ideas, cutting gym class, and riding shotgun in Kathy Johnson’s white VW Cabriolet. Strictly verboten. I’m not thinking about being buried, let alone being buried way out in South San Francisco, where the sun never shines. WTF? I’d be miserable. She knows I hate fog. I’m so used to sharing everything with my Grandma Bertha and now, bam. We hit a giant wall of pumpernickel. Hard and impenetrable. End of subject.

My “Flash Memoir” first appeared in The Boston Globe on October 5, 2022; illustrated by Will Dowd.

Click here to access the digital link:
https://www.bostonglobe.com/2022/10/05/opinion/grandma-bertha-giant-wall-pumpernickel/