The Spaces Between Your Fingers

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Written at an SBYF visit to the Alzheimer's Association March, 2014.  The image is an old matchbook from Kornblaus.

It's a summer night in Atlantic City, 1939.  I'm coming up Virginia Ave in a jitney.  The driver pulls a rope and the door swings open and I'm running toward Kornblaus.

The line's out the door, as usual, families milling about, talking with police officers in their neat blue uniforms.  Everyone is happy; upbeat; laughing; everyone knows everyone.  I spot my Uncle Alex, looking stately in his jacket, greeting the customers, and I run to him."Ah, my darling!" he says as I crash into his legs.  

I'm only nine but I'm here to work.  I bounce between the groups, landing soft as a butterfly, keeping everyone happy.  Inside, the bar to the left is packed, folks eating sandwiches and having drinks.  I see my father across the restaurant; he waves.  I don't think a person could be as happy as I am now in this noisy restaurant.  The war is coming soon but no one here knows it.  Everyone is thrilled to have managed a seat at the finest place in Atlantic City.  Many more wait outside to fill their seats.  

Greetings from Kornblau’s

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