Grannie’s Biscuits

From a deep sleep, the smell of baking biscuits greased with lard pulls me higher towards awakening.


The sound of humming. Who? Where?

Oh yeah, Grannies house.

Darkroom, the flicker of light through the hinges and below the door near the wooden floor.

Coal-fired stove, you know?

I feel a thrill, throw my heavy covers off, and swing my bare legs over the bedside while pulling my tee shirt further down.

I know that cold floor will sting my feet.

I Shiver when I stand with both arms hugging me.

Need to pee…, but the toilet is outside the house, away from the coal-fired stove, in the real cold.  The “outhouse”.

Can’t deal with that yet.

Grannie is humming, and I want to hear more.
If I leave her alone, she might sing.

And, not just any song.  Not at all.

It might be hers sounding like the birds when the old sun comes up.

Her heart is huge with love but filled with pain, the love of wanting, and the stark light of life and harshness.

I sneak closer to the door on those bare feet to listen more.

Yes, I need to pee, but I want to hear Grannie more!

Long, long ago, a buried memory surrounded by love.

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