of perfume, of pumpkin, of sherry

It had been sunny all day (goodlord she hated the fog), and clear skies were promised the next. Her sons and their wives, grandchildren and great-grandchildren drifted in and out of the ranch house rhythmically; we spoke over her bed, conversations about love and living and rememberings, like we were all sitting at a table for tea. The house had a gentle hum.

When I was young, she and my grandfather would wake really early, by 6AM, and from the small room my sister and I would sleep in just off the kitchen, we could hear wood placed in the stove, coffee brewing, talk radio turned on low, the door open and shut to the outside with its promise of cold. The sun had not yet rose. I was too young to be annoyed about being woken from slumber and I would lay there. And listen to them.