More treasures, uncovered.
My dad's mom's sister and her family.
She's tiny, feisty, and blind as a bat.
She wears wigs and blue eyeshadow.
She'll force feed you if you're not careful.
She lives on the 38th floor on Canal Street with her adult son (R).
The view from her window stretches all the way up to Central Park.
The same plastic from my childhood envelops her furniture.
It's yellowed over the decades and some corners have tears.
Her wedding photos hang on the sparse white walls.
Kleenex boxes and miscellany clutter the surfaces.
Last year, she turned 90 years old.
I asked her if she was going to have a big party and birthday cake.
She said no to the latter; the last time was over twenty years ago.
Her birthday cake had killed her diabetic husband (L).
She hasn't touched a stitch of cake since.