two in the morning helping himself to a second slice. “Ah, Deena,” he said, “you have a God-given talent.”
I smiled twice. Once because I was happy he was my grandfather. Twice because I had just decided I was going to make cakes for the rest of my life.
Of course, I may have had the God-given talent, but pride goeth before a fall, and after those first two cakes, I had a few disaster cakes. Daddy told me disasters in life produce character. I suppose I developed character when I had to rush to the store on three occasions because the cakes I made fell or crumbled. No amount of frosting slathered on could save them.
Later, I learned that every cook has a few failures tucked under her crisp white chef’s hat.
————
Grandpa Ernest’s deck holds a red canvas chair, two weather-beaten Adirondack chairs, and a gas grill, along with the hot tub I have yet to unveil. When I sit in one of the wooden chairs, I lean my head back and breathe in the delicate mountain air. The sun is coming out from behind a milky cloud, and as it warms my face, I watch a pair of sparrows flit around the limbs of two birch trees. The sloping mountain peaks within my view are brightened by the sun; they’re now the color of blueberries. It’s the first week of May. May in the mountains. That has a nice ring to it. I bet it could be set to some country music tune.
I should tour Bryson City and the surrounding area. When Dad called this morning, he said I could drive to some of the nearby attractions. He suggested a trip to the Cherokee Indian Reservation, or heading into Gatlinburg, Tennessee, via the Smoky Mountain Parkway, for a day trip. “I bet it’s real pretty this time of year,” he said.
His voice filled my heart with everything I know to be good, and I knew that I should just hop in my Jeep, buckle up, and go.
I rest my arms against the Adirondack chair’s flat, smooth arms. One day, I think—one day the thought of driving won’t make me nauseous. One day I won’t have to deal with all the post-traumatic stuff. One day I won’t care about the scars on my body. One day my days will be as beautiful as Neville Marriner’s symphony playing selections from Vivaldi. Wherever I go, I will be his “Summer” concerto.
Right now a trek in my Jeep down curvy roads into Bryson City for a stop at Ingle’s or The Center is all that I can handle.
A cardinal flies by, and his bright color makes me see only one thing—blood. Blood, fresh and dried, all over the seats of Lucas’s Mustang. I try to force away the memory of that rainy night. I wrap my arms around my waist as though to comfort myself from the tragedy.
Standing, I leave the sunny deck to head inside. The accident was three-and-a-half months ago. Surely—surely—it will leave my mind one day.
————
That evening when the owl calls in the nearby tree and I awake, I remember the envelope with my name on it and the letter inside. Searching in the bookcase, I find it again. I sit outside on the canvas chair and read it again. This time a different part jumps out at me. Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world. Our sorrows often multiply, our disappointments increase, and our hearts are heavy. Perhaps this life is not the one we would have chosen.
I would have chosen Lucas to be faithful and loyal and to love me forever. I would have made him see only me in my teal dress.
I scan the recipe for Grandpa’s peanut soup printed at the end of the letter and think that it sounds worth trying. I jot down the ingredients I’ll need to purchase from Ingle’s. Slipping the memo paper into the pocket of my bathrobe, I look forward to making something my grandfather enjoyed. It will certainly taste better than my own tears. If all the tears I’ve cried since the accident were piped chocolate roses, I would be as round as Hector by now.
When I write in the journal, I start with a few lines about growing up on the farm—how pigs
I smiled twice. Once because I was happy he was my grandfather. Twice because I had just decided I was going to make cakes for the rest of my life.
Of course, I may have had the God-given talent, but pride goeth before a fall, and after those first two cakes, I had a few disaster cakes. Daddy told me disasters in life produce character. I suppose I developed character when I had to rush to the store on three occasions because the cakes I made fell or crumbled. No amount of frosting slathered on could save them.
Later, I learned that every cook has a few failures tucked under her crisp white chef’s hat.
————
Grandpa Ernest’s deck holds a red canvas chair, two weather-beaten Adirondack chairs, and a gas grill, along with the hot tub I have yet to unveil. When I sit in one of the wooden chairs, I lean my head back and breathe in the delicate mountain air. The sun is coming out from behind a milky cloud, and as it warms my face, I watch a pair of sparrows flit around the limbs of two birch trees. The sloping mountain peaks within my view are brightened by the sun; they’re now the color of blueberries. It’s the first week of May. May in the mountains. That has a nice ring to it. I bet it could be set to some country music tune.
I should tour Bryson City and the surrounding area. When Dad called this morning, he said I could drive to some of the nearby attractions. He suggested a trip to the Cherokee Indian Reservation, or heading into Gatlinburg, Tennessee, via the Smoky Mountain Parkway, for a day trip. “I bet it’s real pretty this time of year,” he said.
His voice filled my heart with everything I know to be good, and I knew that I should just hop in my Jeep, buckle up, and go.
I rest my arms against the Adirondack chair’s flat, smooth arms. One day, I think—one day the thought of driving won’t make me nauseous. One day I won’t have to deal with all the post-traumatic stuff. One day I won’t care about the scars on my body. One day my days will be as beautiful as Neville Marriner’s symphony playing selections from Vivaldi. Wherever I go, I will be his “Summer” concerto.
Right now a trek in my Jeep down curvy roads into Bryson City for a stop at Ingle’s or The Center is all that I can handle.
A cardinal flies by, and his bright color makes me see only one thing—blood. Blood, fresh and dried, all over the seats of Lucas’s Mustang. I try to force away the memory of that rainy night. I wrap my arms around my waist as though to comfort myself from the tragedy.
Standing, I leave the sunny deck to head inside. The accident was three-and-a-half months ago. Surely—surely—it will leave my mind one day.
————
That evening when the owl calls in the nearby tree and I awake, I remember the envelope with my name on it and the letter inside. Searching in the bookcase, I find it again. I sit outside on the canvas chair and read it again. This time a different part jumps out at me. Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world. Our sorrows often multiply, our disappointments increase, and our hearts are heavy. Perhaps this life is not the one we would have chosen.
I would have chosen Lucas to be faithful and loyal and to love me forever. I would have made him see only me in my teal dress.
I scan the recipe for Grandpa’s peanut soup printed at the end of the letter and think that it sounds worth trying. I jot down the ingredients I’ll need to purchase from Ingle’s. Slipping the memo paper into the pocket of my bathrobe, I look forward to making something my grandfather enjoyed. It will certainly taste better than my own tears. If all the tears I’ve cried since the accident were piped chocolate roses, I would be as round as Hector by now.
When I write in the journal, I start with a few lines about growing up on the farm—how pigs
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