More than a memory

Just now I smelled my Nana's kitchen. A little light headed I sat down, weak with the stress the emotion the ohsomuch of it all. And I just closed my eyes and remembered how my Nana would open the pantry door to get out the vanilla wafers or little debbie cupcakes. Then there would be a scoop of cherry vanilla ice cream, with the real bits of cherries in it. We'd sit at her kitchen table and I'd eat, kicking my feet that couldn't touch the linoleum.

I'd tell her about my day or ask about the chickens. Mike, the greatest step-great-grandfather a girl could ever wish for would be out puttering on his tractor or wandering in between the cows, keeping an eye on the new calves. "Twins again," he'd say in that gravely voice with a deep chuckle.

We lived a corn field apart. I'd run, through the dirt, just to get to my Nana. She had this great closet filled with old clothes. Strappy shoes and crinolin and costume jewelry. I'd put it all on twirling to her delight as I pretended to be the princess of Harwood, the gypsy on the run, the little girl with the exotic life who didn't just run through a cornfield, who didn't have on her brother's hand me down coat.

And the attic, oh I loved the attic. It was all creaky planks and old newspapers and trinkets and treasures from years of life and love.

My Nana would always tell my Mama, "You'll have to lock that front door once the boys see this one." And I'd secretly well up with pride because I never felt pretty or like a lady, not until my Nana with her pearl earrings and square dancing dress told me I was.

I was always playing war with the boys (the first one to die of course, thus being forced to lie silently in the grass or dirt or snow until the boys finished their game) So I'd lie there and stare up at the sky and I'd be in that cloud or on that plane or anywhere but there.

And when I got older and had my very own housekey I'd turn it in the lock and step inside of the quiet too-big house and hear the clocks tick and the walls settle and the squirrles clatter on the roof and I'd be scared. So I'd lace up my shoes and lock the door and run through the cornfield as fast as frightened legs go to the screen door of my Nana.

"Oh I'm so glad you came by," she'd say, as if her whole day was just waiting for me.
"I was just about to have some ice cream."