Grandaddy

After my long dinner last night, I came home and continued working. I knew the dust could not disappear with just an old rag so I went across the street to get some wood cleaner. Cleaner in hand, I grabbed an old shirt and began wiping down every surface. The filth was unimaginable. After the dirt, I moved to the windows. I caulked the holes and unstuck the window where the paint had begun to stick together. By the time the filth was gone and I had a real working window the sun had vanished and Watershed Heights was quiet.

I woke up to the smell of fresh, warm pumpkin pie drifting in through my freshly fixed window. Immediately, it took my back to standing in my grandfathers kitchen on thanksgiving day with all my family around. I can still feel the burn I got one year when I was careless pulling the roasted turkey out. I laugh to myself and look around with a smile on my face. Although I am sitting in Watershed Heights, I see myself in his kitchen. My grandmother would have been out gardening or at least picking fresh mint out of the garden for lemonade. No matter what time of the year I went to their house the fish pond would be running and there would always be fresh, chilled lemonade. The garage, most likely, still has his old 3 point bucks on the wall and grandmothers painting scattered around. I can feel the humidity from the greenhouse and the breeze coming over the Birmingham hills on my skin.

I jump out of bed and grab a decently clean shirt and pair of loose jeans. Outside of my door I hear others leaving their rooms and clambering down the steps to get to their pie. Trying to beat them, I jump over the banister and manage to successfully land on the steps below. Running outside, I see a line curving around the block. I sigh. I think to myself "oh well, if this pie can bring back my grandaddy then it has gotta be worth it" as I get in line.