The sound always bothered me.
I could tell you the exact places where the sound would be loudest.
Unfortunately, they were places we walked all the time.
They were places that had the most traffic in our kitchen.

Squeaks in the floor were the problem.
Some were near the sink and the counter where I usually prepare meals.
Some were in front of the refrigerator, in the path that led to the laundry room.
Some were around the large farm table.

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My son, daughter-in-love, and sweet granddaughter were here for the weekend.
We were celebrating my son’s birthday a few days before his actual day.
I heard my granddaughter’s squeals as they all walked on the back walkway towards the kitchen.
She was excited to be at Grandma’s house.

My husband teases that it is Pop-Pop’s house, too.
However; to her, everything is Grandma’s.
Of course, I delight over this because for the longest time, she couldn’t say, Grandma.
She said something every time she talked to me or someone pointed to me.

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For the past two years, I have gone to Hutchmoot, a creativity conference.
The past two Octobers, I flew on a plane headed to Tennessee.
I looked forward to my time there.
I looked forward to reconnecting with the people who have become dear friends.

I was looking forward to going again this year.
Like so may of us this year, my plans were cancelled.
There would be no flight to Tennessee.
There would be no reunion with people who are very special to me.

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She was a mutt.
She actually found her pet parents.
It had been just the two of them.
A dog made their family complete.

Mutts are best, she told me.
When they went to find a dog, the people at the shelter deemed them, older pet parents.
They hoped that the dog’s temperament would fit their lifestyle.
They had no idea how opposite their choice would be.

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He is sitting on the small, yellow chair.
A pretend chocolate cake and pretend mixer are in front of him.
He has a gold ribbon tied around his neck.
His eyes look straight ahead, seeing nothing.

He is waiting for my granddaughter to come and get him.
My granddaughter is seventeen months old.
She just spent the weekend with us.
He came, too.

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There it sits.
It is a reminder of what life is like now.
It is a yearning for what life once was.
It is a sign of the times.

It hangs on the phone holder right below my rear view mirror.
I wish it wasn’t there.
I wish I never had to see it again.
However, seven months have passed, and it is still necessary.

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I saw the car parked on the gravel path.
It was a quick glance out of the corner of my eye.
I was driving and couldn’t turn my head to really look.
The car was parked on the path but there was no one near by.

Then I saw the woman.
She was walking with a purpose.
She was holding something in her hand.
She was stepping carefully as she walked.

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I never seem to remember it is there.
It’s not until the first spray of the hose hits the dirt that I remember.
It’s not until something flies out right in front of me that I realize my carelessness.
Every morning, for the past week, it has happened.

Three large potted plants hang on my side porch.
They have grown full and lush.
The ivy cascades down each side and almost touches the porch floor.
The flowers are responding well to the organic fertilizer I add weekly.

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It was a game that was played quite often.
It always ended in giggles.
It always bordered on the absurd.
That was part of the fun.

It began with a story.
The first person whispered the story to the person next to them.
That person told the story to someone else, who told the story to someone else.
The story was repeated until everyone heard.

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It was said in passing.
My friend talked about an eagle’s nest.
My friend actually saw the eagle’s nest.
My friend actually saw the baby eagles.

I was intrigued.
The nest was not too far away.
My friend saw the nest on the bike route she takes on her afternoon ride.
I listened as she described what she saw.

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