Her Yellow Table

I sat at the yellow kitchen table with one foot stuck under me while the other dangled off the chair. I drew in a deep breath devouring the smell. A small crystal sent sun beams dancing around leaving colors of the rainbow. It was hot, but I didn't mind. My legs were now completely stuck to the plastic chair. Despite my discomfort I sat frozen watching. Her body moved elegantly around the kitchen. Her apron was covered with flour though she still looked crisp and clean. Everything about her was beautiful. My eyes wide open, I was hesitant to blink. I couldn’t stand to miss a mere second of her poise. She was my great grandmother, and I sincerely admired her. I was five almost six, and I dreamed of one day standing in my own kitchen rolling out pie crust like her. She spoke softly too me “dear, would you like a piece of Johnny cake?” My mouth watered at the thought, and I nodded furiously. She handed me a plate with three pieces placed perfectly in a row. I chewed slowly enjoying the moment. My grandmother sat down directly across from me. She watched as I ate. When finished I licked every finger clean. I stood up peeling myself from the yellow chair. “Grandma, will you tell me a story?”

I sat at the same yellow table the day of her funeral. I looked around at her kitchen remembering her elegance and style as she baked her apple pie. The refrigerator hummed softly as I sat remembering the past. That’s all it was now “the past”. A tear rolled down my cheek as I remembered her sweet kisses on my forehead. I felt sick realizing she was really gone. Knowing my own children will never have the privilege of knowing her, her love, her glow, her elegance, her warm hugs and soft kisses. But mostly that I will never again sit in her kitchen with her.

As I type this I am overwhelmed with guilt and sadness that I can’t remember the exact smell of her kitchen, or the taste of her apple pie. I can’t exactly remember what her voice sounded like when she would call me “dear.” I hate that there are things I can’t remember now. I can’t stand that every day my memory fades a little more. But mostly I mourn the fact that my grandmother died without knowing the love of her creator.