The memories I have with my Grandmother are very fond. She used to live with my parents and me when I was about six and stayed with us until I went to college.
She raised me on many wonderful things such as spontaneous trips to the Natural History Museum, how to pick out flowers for ever occasion and even her own mother’s secret recipe for the perfectly fluffy blueberry pancakes.
Every Sunday she would let me sleep in, but I would always wake up when I smelled those pancakes and heard her singing “You are my Sunshine”. She would always come into my room with a short stack and we’d share them before heading off to late-morning service, and then we would spend the day together.
Sunday has always been our day.
So, it’s my first Sunday back home after graduation and I can smell those pancakes and I can hear her singing in her worn and raspy southern accent just faintly.
The only problem is, my Grandmother died two weeks after I left for school.
And her singing is getting closer.