GueSt Column

My King Of The Opera

Stefenie Sasson
Special to The AppleTree

randpa Abie told me I
looked like a princess. I
told Grandpa Abie he
looked like a king. He did. Honest.
Grandpa Abie's shoulders are as
wide as a kite and Grandpa never
slouches. Grandpa Abie's face is
as round as a cookie plate and his
eyes are the color of the deep,
blue sea. Isabella, my favorite doll,
and Grandpa Abie have the same
porcelain skin. Grandpa Abie is as
plump as a French king and his
nose hooks like the hanger that
hangs my cherry-red, velvet pea
coat.
Grandpa Abie never wears blue
jeans. Grandpa, a big business-
man, only wears suits. Grandpa
says that a suit is the sign of a gen-
tleman. Some of Grandpa Abie's
suits have pinstripes; some are the
color of sea coral, and some are as
dark as night. Some call Grandpa
Able handsome and shrewd. What-
ever they call him, I think Grandpa
Able is absolutely wonderful.
Before Grandpa Abie and I go to
the opera, we go to our favorite
Italian restaurant for dinner. Grand-
ma always tells me to make sure
that Grandpa Abie eats a grilled
piece of fish with lemon, no butter.
Nothing else. A piece of fish and
nothing else. Why, I wonder? Why
does it matter what Grandpa Abie
eats? And why fish? I absolutely
hate fish.
The man dressed as a penguin is
Giovanni. Giovanni helps me up
onto my chair; my shiny black
shoes dangle as if I were swinging
from a swing.
Giovanni lays the rose-colored
napkin on my lap and Grandpa

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orders a drink that smells of rotten
apples. Giovanni brings Grandpa
Abie a big maple wood box of
thick, long, brown-colored ciga-
rettes that smell of wet tree bark.
When dinner comes, Giovanni
brings me a bowl of spaghetti with
a big silver spoon and he brings
Grandpa Abie a big steak and a
big baked potato with melted butter
floating in the middle. I never say
anything and when Grandma asks
me what Grandpa ate for dinner, I
say, "grilled fish with lemon, no but-
ter." Grandpa Able smiles.
Grandpa Abie's car is big and
fancy. It is old and smart and very
shiny. Grandma calls it "Able's
Baby." Grandpa Abie puts out his
brown, spotted hand for me to
hold. Two men in black-and-gold
soldier costumes open the big cop-
per door as Grandpa Abie and I
walk through. My cherry-red, velvet
pea coat is draped over my chair
that sits in the round box where
only my grandpa and I sit. The

shiny gold opera glasses
are broken, so I give them
to Grandpa Abie and he
fixes them for me. Grand-
pa lifts the opera glasses
to my eyes as the heavy
velvet curtain leaves the
ground very slowly. The
stage becomes a rainbow
of the most beautiful col-
ors.
The drums, the voices,
crash together as the earth
begins to quake. The ceil-
ing is tall with bright-blue
clouds and angels that
look much like people I
have seen. Each crack is
filled with melted gold
daisies.
There are no other chil-
dren here. I think that it is past their
bedtimes. Below me is a sea of
penguins and women who wear
gowns of only black. Their noses
high up in the clouds, they sit
frozen.
One tear falls from the pink of
Grandpa Abie's eye. Grandpa
always cries when we go to the
opera. "What's the matter?" I ask.
Grandpa Abie does not answer.
He is quiet; his eyes sparkle. His
brown, spotted hands fold together
tightly; inside, a captured butterfly
flutters its wings quickly to escape.
The butterfly's wings begin to fall in
toward its very tired body.
The clouds from above fall for-
ward as the penguin-dressed gentle-
men and women in gowns of black
stand, clapping. Grandpa Abie
wraps my cherry-red, velvet pea
coat around my shoulders and kiss-
es my head softly as he tells the
copper door holder that I am his
princess.

"And Grandpa Abie is my French
king," I tell the door holder as he
closes the door of Grandpa Abie's
old, smart car.
Grandma says that Abie's wings
folded. Just as the butterfly, Grand-
pa Abie's heart became tired. i do
not go to the opera anymore, but
Grandpa Abie still does. He is one
of the angels in the bright-blue
clouds.
Grandpa Abie is the king of the
opera. Fl

Stefenie D. Sasson,

16, of
Bloomfield Hills wrote this story in
memory of her grandfather Abra-
ham Minowitz. Stefenie is in the
11th grade at Detroit Country
Day School in Beverly Hills. Her
future plans include attending film
school and becoming a producer
or director.

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