Gramma

by Wayne Koehler
      I must have been about 6 years old. The smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of the skillet on the stove woke me. I was tight inside my sleeping bag on the floor of Gramma’s dining room, which could never be used as a dining room because there were always grandkids needing a floor to sleep on. I opened my eyes to see Gramma and Mom in the kitchen busy with breakfast. Gramma was wiping the pickle jars which she had just put up from Grandpa’s garden. Those were the largest and most delicious pickles on the planet. Mom was frying eggs, and the pancakes were already on the table.
     Someone had put the syrup, butter, grape jam. blackberry jam, milk and orange juice on the table in preparation of the rush of kids which would come any minute. The eight plates were already set around the table. I should hurry if I want to eat anytime soon. Maybe Grandpa will eat with us and slip me a cookie.
     The pickles were not yet pickles. They were still officially cucumbers, green and large from Grandpa’s garden. Out there were onions, lettuce, radishes, plums, apricots, apples, corn, pears, tomatoes, and pigs. And a secret shed which may have magically turned some of the garden into clear liquid that Grandpa loved to share.
     I remember that morning when I was about 6 years old. It is one of the few vivid memories that I have of my childhood. It wasn’t a bad childhood, I have just put other things in my brain and there’s only so much room. Like a photo album. I could always get another photo album, but I only got one brain.
     I hold on to this memory because it is one where I can still see my Gramma. She is dead now, and has been for many years. I still see her when I need to, and it is comforting for me. Like I was comforted every time I woke up in her dining room.