As I gaze out the window, I watch a single leaf flutter from the branch to the ground. Slowly, gracefully twirling, I pause to watch it's majestic journey.
As I turn back to preparing my frozen bread for thawing, I smile. Grandma always made frozen Schwan's bread. I loved the smell of her house as it baked. I loved the taste of the hot slice smothered in butter and honey. The honey from the hives down by the creek where the bees feasted on Grandpa's alfalfa was the best honey in the world. I still crave that honey. I loved my sticky fingers and Grandma's smile as I finished my treat.
My youngest daughter smiles up at me proclaiming, "Mommy, you are making bread."
She loves fresh bread too. She knows that we will gather around the table with her brothers and sisters enjoying the first slice of warm bread and conversation after school.
Warm memories passed from generation to generation.
93 years of living, and Grandma is growing weary. I gaze nostalgically out the window again. Another leaf is dancing to the ground.
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