Babka
by Harris Tobias
When the angel of death knocked on
Mrs Kaminsky’s door, her reaction was not at
all what he was expecting. “Come in, sit
down. Can I get you something to eat?”
“No,” said the specter.
“Are you sure? You’re
looking gaunt.” She ushered the visitor to a
chair saying, “You’re in luck. I just
baked a babka. It’s still warm. People say I
make a really good babka. What’s your hurry,
it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
“Well, okay,” said the
angel pulling his seat closer to the round oak
table. The table with the oil cloth cover. The
very table where Ida Kaminsky had served
thousands of meals to her children, her husband.
Meals all served with such love and devotion it
almost made the angel feel ashamed.
Death propped his scythe against the
wall and waited as Ida cut a generous slice of
the fresh pastry. And it was by far the best
babka the angel had ever tasted. One slice led to
another until the angel groaned with contentment.
“If you like, I can wrap up a
piece for later,” Ida Kaminsky said.
“Sure,” said Death, “Later.”
And he took the piece of cake wrapped in aluminum
foil from the old woman’s hand and left.
|
