I search for words that when stitched together, as in an eye-catching tapestry, express something with texture and richness, and I hope, beauty. Fingers are crossed for a glimpse of a sparkling thread, or an unexpected color that draws a reader in. Sometimes I fail miserably. But on a good day, as with the surprise of a wonderful candid photo, I capture a spirit, and a heartbeat. Then I watch a story come alive.
Twice Grady has been in the house when the light shone a
certain way and spirits came to visit.
The first time, morning streamed into the living room and I was again his age, at Fanny’s house on Myrtle Street. I
remembered every detail of waking up while she made Grandpa’s coffee and I gathered
my toys to play in the dining room next to the French doors. The same way Grady
lined up his planes and cars next to the sunny glass slider. I watched him but
I could feel young me; I smelled Fanny’s burnt toast, followed by the sound of
her scraping the dark bits into the sink with the back of a knife.
It happened again on a late afternoon, just before dinner. As
I set the table I saw my grandmother placing her blue and white plates on her
table in the breakfast nook, and my kitchen filled with the aroma of hers. I
could hear Grady playing with Pop-Pop as I finished making the meal and I
remembered waiting with anticipation - what would Grandma place on the table
for dinner? Always something wonderful, something I loved. Dinner will be ready soon, Tatina…
For the following days I smelled her fragrant sauce and sensed
her walking the hallways. Was I at her house, or she at mine?
I was grandmother and grandchild with snapshots hurtling me through
time while I helped Grady build a past he’ll remember in his future. Both
places, both times at once. Dancing ghosts; delightful memories. Darling boy.
It was eerie. It was wonderful.
I’m in love with this child. The way I was in love with