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Safta (Grandma) MAG
As I walk to the apartment,
the smell carries me in,
the fresh aroma of the soup,
with some carrots,
and most important, the chicken.
Then I spot the fresh noodles,
and think of them drying in the hot sun
of Israel, where she once lived.
Her presence was sacred;
I wish that
she was still here.
My favorite grandma,
up above.
As I think of her every day,
the chicken soup memories arise,
and I feel her near me,
watching with her brown eyes.
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