It was a warm day, one of the last of that summer. The old house with powdery yellow siding
sat tired-looking and neglected. Long gone were the days of wild honey-suckle vines, delicate roses racing up the front-porch lattice, and manicured landscape.
It had been way too long since the smell of fresh baked bread or hot, dripping cinnamon rolls had lured me to breeze through the tightly sprung screen door and directly to the table where I could sit and eat until my head was dizzy and my limbs were weak.
No, this day was as it had been for some time. The flowerbeds were flowerless, the pastures were grown over, and the honeysuckle-lined fence stood crooked and bare.
She would stand behind him as he greeted me first with a tobacco scented kiss and a warm hug.
Over his shoulder I could see the perplexed look on her face. She was certainly glad I was there, an unexpected visitor that would surely make this day different, for a while, from the rest. But the confusion was etched distinctly in the bend of the creases on her forehead and in the blackness of her eyes.
I believe she knew in her heart that I was a special visitor but her mind did not know me at all.
Conversation was as anticipated. Awkward and simple. She mostly sat there. Studying me, enjoying watching me and just being beside me.
When there were no more questions to be asked regarding doctor's visits or medication improvements, my grandpa settled in his chair in the room adjacent. Did he need a reprieve or did he know that I needed this time with her? Whatever his reason, I embraced the silence. I knew I needed to pause and breathe in the closeness of her. Her Covergirl foundation forever masked the scent of her soft perfume and I smiled. Her child-like expression and the way her hands held mine told me she was doing the same. I pressed the imaginary button that I hoped would record this sweet song.
As my grandpa stepped outside she looked at me, and a girlish grin cracked her lips apart.
"Do you have a boyfriend?," she asked in a way that made me feel like we were two school-girls at a sleep over. It was a question she often asked.
"Yes, grandma. His name is Shawn and he is my husband now."
I said it gently, hoping that I wouldn't make her feel silly for asking.
She was hard on herself at first, when the disease made it's unwelcome entrance. Forgetting names or birthdays would bring guilty embarrassment. But now there was no condemnation or emotion, just new information. Her smile approved the fact and we sat soundless again.
My mind began to search for a question I could ask her in return. I sought to find a simple one that had more substance than what she had eaten for breakfast or lunch and regrettably I realized at that moment that I had waited to long. The only questions in my mind were ones that I should have cared enough to ask before now. The ones that would help me understand who she was. I felt selfish and ashamed.
I couldn't take the silence any longer yet I couldn't come up with a fitting thing to say. I blurted out the last random, unknown question that had flashed in my mind.
Still holding hands, I gave hers a squeeze. "Grandma, can you tell me something about when you were a child?"
After a moment passed, in which I hurriedly tried to think of a less foolish question, one that had to do with what she ate for breakfast or lunch, it was as if a dark cloud began lifting from her eyes. Her back straightened and her shoulders widened.
And then on that maroon couch with the ruffled skirt and scratchy pillows I witnessed a loophole in her disease. A treasure chest of childhood memories, that had not been wrinkled by time or eroded by all the hard seasons of her life, was unlocked.
I sat wide eyed and amazed as the details of her parents and siblings and grandparents and their farm house on Franklin Road poured from her without delayed thought or speech.
How her grandfather was mischievous and fun and her cousins were always around. They would run and play in the tall grass and splash in the river. (Without bug spray or a bottle of water at their fingertips.)
Things were different back then. That was the theme. Simple things were pleasures. Friday nights were special to her. The extended family and friends would gather together and sing. Her grandparents lived on the same land and she re-counted specific stories of fun and mischief.
The time passed too quickly and I could see her eyes were growing heavy. As suddenly as she had sprung to life, the disease interrupted the last conversation with my grandma.
The craving I got for a simpler time during that exchange with her still bubbles to the surface of my soul from time to time.
Thank you Lord for giving me a those precious moments and keep reminding me that life was meant to be simple.
LOVE this yogurt place! 
