Grandma’s House

Gritty cold hardwood planks hurt my knees and ankles as I crawl around.

Bleach meets coffee, while Spanish spices and fragrances of fresh laundry dance in the foreground, they tickle my nostrils fighting for dominance, simultaneously creating a unique scent that one would have to smell.

My own cries and whines reverberate through the house, I can’t talk yet, but I want a drink, and she can tell.

With a soft hush my tiny hands find hot coffee in a baby bottle, the warmth slightly burns, but feels soothing at the same time, and the fact that I’m scooped up in Grandmas warm embrace only adds to the taste.

A soft rubber nipple gives way to a sugary Java explosion, as I suck and nibble, Im greeted with flavors so potent, sweet with just a hint of bitter, it’s a treat grandma only gave me this winter.

She lifts me up and through wide baby eyes, I see her face; wrinkled, hard, and chiseled, worn like a statue past it’s seasons, her smile faint and forced, but sincere, even after all these years it’s amazing how I can close my eyes and still see her.