and ramblings on everything in between
Back in my youth when I was near you, I wish I would have asked you questions about you. About who you really were and what you enjoyed most in life and what made you smile each day. Instead I focused on the part of you who was Grandma to a small brood of children. I didn’t realize then that you were someone before you became Grandma to me.
I wish we would have cooked together, discussing the recipes you made for years and the cooking disasters you experienced when trying new dishes.
Even though we won’t have a chance to experience it together now, I know you’re cooking alongside me each day. I pick out one of your aprons and I tie it around my waist like you did for so many years. I take you with me as I dance around the kitchen, from the sink to the fridge to the stove, thinking of all the little things that remind me of you – walking to the library, hanging clothes on the line, swinging on the front porch, and eating Grape Nuts.
For some reason, we never called you Grandma Mary. You were always Grandma in Carthage to us. My aunt on my mom’s side thought that was so quirky. “Does that mean you call my mom Grandma in the Sticks?” she would joke.
I ask you the questions I should have asked when I had the opportunity to, while covering your apron in flour and seasoning and splashes of milk as I prepare my meals.
Cooking casseroles and soups…
All the while, thinking of you.