first heard the mourner’s Kaddish as I stood next to the open ground at my Grandpa Wasserkrug’s graveside service. I was nine — too young to understand so many things yet mature enough to attend his funeral. In my mind, Grandpa died in autumn. I remember leaves weeping in the cold. He actually died on March 4, as spring approached. But I’m confident the St. Louis wind blew fiercely that day. I should explain that Grandpa Wasserkrug, my mother’s father, was my most beloved and only surviving grandparent. He lived in our home and kept me safe. Grandpa took me fishing in Forest Park, his pervasive enthusiasm transforming the scrawniest fish into a victorious catch. We loved each other unconditionally. At some point, Grandpa started […]
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