Sweet Pickles

There they sat… all the way in the back of the fridge… behind the mayo and the gherkins… just to the left of the low fat yogurt… a jar of home-canned sweet pickles. You always called them "Bread & Butters" and you knew I loved them. They’ve been there for three and a half years now… I couldn’t bring myself to open them… I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out… How long do pickles keep, anyway? You would know the answer to that… but you’re not here.

I’m standing in your kitchen at your sink… a place I’ve stood thousands of times in my life… washing Sunday dinner dishes… leaning against the counter chatting as you cooked... getting swatted with the dish towel for stealing a piece of fried squash from the pan. I find myself unconsciously standing the way you stood -- kind of like a flamingo – one foot resting on the opposing knee. I hadn’t realized I’d picked up that habit.

Just now, the feeling hits me hard and fast… I miss you… I miss your unconditional love… I miss our chats… I miss just knowing that you’re here… and the tears flow hot and fast. Sometimes, I think you still are – here that is -- I’ll wake up in the morning and smell stewed tomatoes or burnt toast or your old fashioned roses that grow by the back door, even though they’ve long since finished blooming.

My name may be on the deed now, but this will always be your house. Living here will always remind me of you and because of that I will always feel loved and I will never feel alone.

~Dedicated to the memory of my beloved grandmother, whom I affectionately called 'Lucy.'
© Oh to be a 40’s Torch Singer 2005
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