Until Marv’s death, I had only ever seen one picture of Raphael and Brunya, his parents – an image of a dapper, elegant Gatsby man seated in tall grass beside his round faced, curly haired lady with deep, expressive eyes.  Marv never made any comparisons between Pammy and I, and his family – no sentiments such as “You’ve got your grandmother’s eyes,” and so on.  It almost seemed like a superstition with him to avoid discussing what they had been like, as if knowing about them might make some negative quality or powerful flaw contagious.   During our last week together, though, Dad found me dressed to go out in my striped corduroy pants and medallion print shirt.  “My mother always wore prints together like a gypsy,” he said with amusement and, I think, some pride.  “I never knew that,” I said.  “Oh, she was a gypsy, a real gypsy at heart!”