the smell of bacon wafts up the stairs into my chilly, syracuse-room-in-winter
voices follow in its wake
I pad down to breakfast in pjs, over old, unfinished, squeaky wood floors
down to the kitchen warm with conversation,
coffee and people. A glance up at the cookie jar grandma always kept full.
sugar cookies taste better than eggs and bacon. can I reach them?
-- Followed later by evening --
after pie. after homemade whipped cream. bellies full.
out come the guitars, someone steps up to the piano.
aunts and uncles + mom makes eight.
jamming, harmonies, cover songs, impromptu creation
of original songs. a brief tussle over the correct chord progression.
a few different tries at the harmonies. then off they went...
hot, homemade cider steaming in my hands,
I sink into the old, worn couch to listen, absorb
and remember.
Childhood Memory of Grandma's House
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