| I opened my mouth to sing, but realize I didn't know the words, and closed it sadly.
The step creaked as Grandma walked slowly into the kitchen, her lasting smile pushing wrinkles into her cheeks. Her green eyes smiled more than her lips, if possible.
“Me an' Betty were talkin' about Mom and Dad,” she said softly. “We had such good times.”
She moved to the window where the sun shone full on her face, and I almost saw her as the young girl … the light falling on her pale golden hair, tingeing it the auburn color it once was.
“I recalled” she drawled. “We'd get snow on that mountain a foot deep. But there was always work to be done. I mustn't a'been but knee high to a grasshopper when Dad would take me to gather eggs. He'd walk ahead a'me, and I was real careful to walk in his footprints. They were so big—but they made my path easier.”
“You must miss 'em,” I said. “All these stories you tell make me wish I lived back then.”
“No,” Grandma says. “We had terrible times. Everybody was so poor. But Mom and Dad worked hard, and loved us. Some nights we would sing! Oh! Sing till three in the mornin'!” she laughed, adding, “I'll be back to help with these biscuits,” as she slowly eased out of the kitchen.
“I wish I knew those songs,” I whispered, half to the mockingbird and half to myself.
The floor creaked as I moved to the sink and washed my hands with cool water and lemon-scented soap. Bright yellow daffodils in a vase were surrounded by smaller jars filled with maroon apple butter, dark purple blackberry jam, and bright red raspberry jam. The sparkling glass and vibrant colors caught the morning light like fresh butter on a hot biscuit. Thinking about apple butter and biscuits made my mouth water, and I went to the table to knead the lump of dough.
The imprint of Grandma's hands rested in the dough. I gently eased my hands into the depression, feeling the warmth of her fingers still lingering. The print looked so large with my hand inside it. “Dear God,” I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice. “May my hands follow the path Grandma's have. Thank you for her! She has made my way easier.”
I took a pinch of flour off the table, sprinkling it onto the pale dough, relishing the smooth texture as my thumb and forefingers rubbed back and forth to release it. The cool, moist dough squished through my fingers.
“Child!” Grandma called as she came back. She moved behind me and the floor creaked. I felt her warm breath on the back of my neck.
“Take this,” she said, and she placed a cold, thin chain around my neck. I looked down at the tarnished silver cascading across my chest, centering on a spring green oval stone.
“Dad gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday. Saved up for it and bought it at the minin' town down the holler. I want you to have it.”
“Thank you, Grandma! It's beautiful,” I breathed, turning and giving her a hug. She was so warm and solid, and her long arms grasped me strongly as I buried my face in her neck. She smelled of soap and mountain fields.
“Let's get these biscuits in the oven,” she said, releasing me.
“Grandma, do you think you could teach me the songs you used to sing?”
She chortled. “I reckon. Why don't we sing one we both know?”
I nodded as I took a smooth glass jar and pressed it firmly into the moist dough, cutting out circles for the biscuits.
She began to sing, clearer now, a soprano note high as the spring wind. I joined in lower, unifying a harmony to her song, and we sang the words together, meaning them with all our hearts. |
