My mind is full of memories, stories that are told of events in the past. Stories are told when a photograph is passed around at a family dinner or Zoom call. The photo is of an event in the past with younger family members, like me as a baby. I am not thinking of the photo but of the memory of when the story was told to me, which is so vivid.
I am sitting at the grey 1950’s style kitchen table with three chairs around it in my Grandma and Grandpa’s home on 10th Street. On the table is a Lazy Susan (a round tray that spins around) with salt and pepper shakers that are white. A figurine of a girl in a long pink dress holding a cake that is also a vase. It is holding white fake flowers.
The little white lace curtain is flapping in the breeze. My foot is in an ice bucket because I sprained my ankle the night before at my junior high basketball game. My grandma in her half apron of pink and brown is cooking breakfast sausages and burning the toast, and the hot chocolate I was drinking was delicious. We were looking at pictures from a shoe box she brought in from the shop. As she told me who was in the picture, a great aunt or uncle, a great-grandparent, or a second or third cousin she told a story about that person or event. The story included the location, usually outside. The event was usually a family event – a birthday, holiday, or a celebration of a birth. And the story always included her laughing remembering a time when she was younger. I am remembering all those stories of the people I miss calling and visiting.
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