My sister is putting together a history of the lives of my paternal grandparents. She has asked all of their grandchildren to contribute their memories to it. And so they have been on my mind lately.
Most of my childhood memories take place in their house. In fact, on nights when I am having trouble falling asleep and am practicing my hypnobirthing techniques (not for pain relief obviously, just for relaxation) the safe place that I go is to my Grandma's kitchen. While I'm there I can smell it. The house has an old, slightly musty smell. But not bad. Just enough to give it character. While I'm there I can smell the bacon on the stove, the bacon that my grandma cooked every single morning for breakfast, and I can almost feel the anticipation for a cup of her homemade hot chocolate.
I might just sneak into the crystal cupboard and pull out one of the fancy teacups for my hot chocolate. And sit at the table and dip my toast into the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted. And while I drink my hot chocolate from the fancy crystal teacup, I will most definitely extend my pinkies and remind my little sister that she should too.
And we might just pull out the box of Madame Alexander dolls. I will get to be the mom, of course, and all the other dolls will be all of my adopted children. (They are all from other countries, in case you were wondering.) We will fight over the flamenco doll, and my grandma will threaten to put them away. When we do put them away, I will wish that I could pull the Mary Poppins bag down from the shelf in the closet, like I do every time that I see it, just to feel the bottom. And at some point, I will end up on Grandma's lap, her soft, beautiful hands brushing the back of my neck, relaxing me.
It's my favorite place in all the world to go.