Just
like grandmother made, she thought. The cup brought warmth to her
spirit, which was in dire need of mending as this season brought both
joy and weariness. From
behind her giant mug of comfort she intently gazed on the man who
gathered her attention as he strolled past.
She
remained concealed, tucked away, except for the big soft eyes peering
into the outside world. What about this man is so familiar? Something
pulled terribly at the yesteryear as he drifted by like the lonesome
ghosts many of us are. But what?The cologne. Jacques 57. It reminded
her of her grandfather. In an instantaneous manner she was whisked
away into the past.
She
finds herself sitting upon his sturdy knee once again. She looks
around to see the house decorated, and busy with the bustle of
people. It's Christmas. Grandfather is sitting with her in his
three-season porch, a lit pipe giving the air a tobacco perfume. She
sees his cold blue eyes and warm rosy cheeks sitting upon his
weathered skin wreathed in hair white as snow. All of which are
focused on her, his beloved granddaughter. The warmth in his cocked
smile, and baritone chuckle fill the space between with love and joy.
Besides his laughter, the only noise to be heard is Grandmother
cooking in the kitchen. The farmstead remains covered in the silent
snow. There is peace for all to share here.
As
the cash register opens she is jolted back to reality to watch the
gentleman walk away with his coffee and optimism. She quietly gathers
herself as the realizes comes home; it wasn't the cup that warmed her
spirit, rather nostalgia. What started with a cup reminding her of
her dear grandmother, ended with an uncompromising cash register lay
a memory. A memory she thought she could hold onto throughout this
season. She had found her holiday spirit.
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