Reminiscence by Emma Lambert

Reminiscence

Sometimes the smell
of gingersnap cookies
resonates in the air.

The chaotic Sunday
nights after we got home
from an evening at the park
one cousin running around
pulling out board games from the
closet, while another was slipping their
tiny feet into grandma’s old heels
and stomping around the kitchen tiles.

Christmas Day was in that small
house on a hill every year,
a house built on the foundation of love.
A house that had been called
home for more years than
you could count on two hands.

It was a house where we all felt safe,
even when the sun set and
darkness swallowed the sky.

The night was filled with old
cartoons on VHS and three trips
to the kitchen in the same hour
to grab another snack from
the cluttered kitchen table.

When it was time to sleep,
two or three children
would curl up underneath
the layers of quilts and sheets.

We would argue over who got
the spot next to grandma that night,
or when it was peaceful,
we would stare at the ceiling and
say whatever was on our minds.

Then, grandma would switch off
the lamp on her dresser,
gently pull back the sheets,
and lay down next to us.

She would pray,
asking God to keep us safe
and sound and simply thanking him
for her family, showing her gratitude.

As our eyes would start to flutter
shut and sleepiness overcame us,
she would turn to face the wall,
gently trace circles on my little arm,
and smile.

Goodnight, she would say to us.
I love you.

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