Nana's stories

The second my foot touches the old, patterned carpet I feel my breath get knocked out of me. It’s too much. The tears that threaten to spill over. The scent of her perfume. The memories that all come flooding back. My hands grip the golden pendent. All I have left of her. I feel a steady hand on my shoulder followed by: “You, ok?” I’m gasping for breath. Making that stupid hiquppy sound little kids make when they try not to cry. Trembling. Stumbling. I make my way over to the squishy old couch. I sink into the soft blue cushions. She used to read me lovely stories here. Not silly baby ones, but beautiful tales of girls in cottages covered in wildflowers, wondrous adventures of running free and wild without a care in the world. Little did I know.