Memories. Oh, so many memories.  Soft and subtle images dance through my mind at the mere mention of the word Grandma.

You know, if I close my eyes I can even smell the heavenly scent of her kitchen.  The aroma drifts lazily through my nostrils and straight into the recesses of my mind.  Flour, bacon grease and the ever-lingering fragrance of peaches flood my soul.

I loved staying with her.  My mind greedily clutches at picturesque memories, one after another. 

Shhh, close your eyes and listen.  Can you hear it?  I can.  I hear those rustic old floorboards creaking underneath of my feet.  I can hear the soft metallic grind as I turn the doorknob and I can hear groan as the old framed glass door into the kitchen swings open. 

The aroma oozes from the kitchen like a breath from heaven.  Smile.  A huge smile spreads over my face and I see her there, sitting with a glass of milk, a package of Nutter Butter Peanut Butter Sandwich Cookies and a half peeled banana. 

I can see the soft glow of welcome and love ignite in her eyes, those wonderful pale blue orbs peeking out from her glasses.

Most people have the sweetest memories of spring or summer.  Not I. 

I fondly and happily recall the very best moments being in the winter.  Winter’s chill.  Oh, sweet and loving Grandma.  You made me feel so exquisitely special in that old house of yours. 

Sublime recollections of cold frosty mornings rush through my heart, smelling breakfast in the making.  Of hearing breakfast in the making!  Oh, what sweet and melodic sounds.  The sizzle of bacon frying, that nice thick bacon she had cut special at the store.  Hearing the tinkering and thumping of my dear Grandma moving about in her little kitchen making me something to warm my bones. 

I can feel the cold.  I imagine awakening in her east room, the bed piled high with quilts, and quickly jumping into my clothes to dash down the hall to the sanctity and warmth of the kitchen. 

The kitchen, you see, was heaven on many fronts.  It was the warmest spot in the winter and the coolest in the summer, with the exception being when she was making a fresh peach cobbler.  When she was baking in the summer, the old stove heated up the house so much that I too, thought I was going to bake along with the cobbler. 

So many memories, Grandma.  I would have to write an entire book to put down even half of the recollections.

I’ll leave off with this.  I love you Grandma and I can’t wait to walk into your wonderful kitchen in heaven.  I can see your beaming smile in my mind.  Oh, and Grandma?  Could you maybe have a batch of biscuits ready for me when I get there?

©2001 J.L. Day