A memory: Early morning, fire crackling in the wood stove, first light leaning toward us as Mama rocks me, back and forth. I’m in footed pajamas. Thanksgivings will come and go, but this one, the first I can recall, this one has carved itself into me. I’m the baby, too young to know grateful, but I know home, family, love. Smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy thick in the air. My brother gets his breakfast on a tray because he has rheumatic fever. Five years, my whole life, he’s been sick. I jump on his bed, and the tray rattles. He grabs his glass of milk and laughs. Always happy, my sick brother, with dimples like mine. I see it all, still. M...
Stories Mysteries Life