Grandma's table

 As a young boy, I often stayed at my grandma's house. Usually, after school, I would walk a couple of miles to the smallest house on the block. It was more like a cottage, and everything about it was just like her. She didn't have much of anything new, but having anything at all was good enough for her. She kept the little house spic and span washing her floors on her knees and always a clean cloth in her apron pocket to fend off any dust that tried to get inside.

She loved plants, and every windowsill was adorned with one kind or another that she sang to as she watered. Somehow, I believed they heard her. She had a small kitchen with a red table and chairs with silver legs where we sat as she cut off the tips of green beans. Other times, we'd talk as cookies baked in the oven, making my mouth water.

Later, I learned that her life was hard, and although she was not old at the time, she seemed so to me. I would walk with her to her job in an ice cream cone factory, which filled the air with a sweetness I'll never forget. She held my hand, and we talked about everything, including my biggest wish to ride on the train that passed right in the back of her house.

On my eleventh birthday, she surprised me with two tickets on the Beeliner passenger train. It would be a six-hour ride from Buffalo to Niagara Falls and back. She packed us lunch because the club car was expensive, but I didn't care; I was busy looking out the window at miles and miles of beautiful scenery.

We often spoke at that red table about our adventures and the importance of always learning and exploring. I believe she was my best friend, and to this day, I can hear her singing to her plants and the smell of her perfume as she dusted everything in sight. I could taste her chocolate chip cookies and feel her hand holding mine as we walked to the ice cream cone factory, talking about everything my young mind could think of, and she always seemed to have just the right answers.

Mike 2025