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A Short Story : The Story Of Davian A Story?

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“William!” Arabel exclaimed as she rushed downstairs into the warm, currently potato-scented kitchen of the little flat Daviana had rented. “Are you nearly finished?” He shook his head, turned to kiss her, then refocused on the stove before him. “Father’s recipe is more difficult than I remember– and the potatoes aren’t sticking together! They are supposed to stick, are they not?” Glancing over his shoulder, she sighed, “They look fine, my love; you’re simply impatient.” She ran a hand through his hair– so different now, in the way it swept away from his forehead, and so, so short, quite unlike how he had always worn it in his youth. Daviana walked in then, stopping before the stove and inhaling. “Oh! Delightful, delightful; just like your father used to make!” He sighed. “No, Aunt Davi– I have tried to follow his recipe exactly–” His aunt laughed. “Oh, don’t do that!” She turned towards a small, worn leather journal which lay nearby and taking it up, said, “I’d forgotten--” The world began to spin. No, thought Arabel; no-- she ran from the room, followed by Daviana, and collapsed over a bucket in the sitting room. No food yet, and already sick… “Oh, dear,” Daviana muttered. She crouched down beside Arabel, wrapped an around around her, and began to whisper soothingly in Yiddish. Her own daughter, Elsie, would have been twenty that year, and the next Yahrzeit was fast approaching. Her chest ached. Having lost both her brother and her only child in such a short span of

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