decline.
Helen punched in the security code to the memory care wing. Sister Agnes, the nun from Emily’s preschool, was talking calmly to Gran, who looked like a bewildered doll sitting in a chair that was too big. I knew that the nuns who still lived at Mount Saint Mary’s went back and forth between the nursing home and the preschool, so I wasn’t surprised.
Sister smiled at us. “She has been a little agitated this morning,” she said. She smiled at Gran. “But I kept telling Dorothy that her two favorite people were coming to visit.” She reached over and patted Gran’s hand. “And here they are.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Helen said gently. “Mom, let’s walk a little bit. You were always the best walker around.”
“Walk,” Gran repeated weakly, as if she wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
We both helped Gran up from the chair and held on to her until she became steadier on her feet. Gran seemed to think more clearly when she was moving.
We meandered down the hall, while Helen chattered on.
Gran shuffled to a stop and turned to me. “It’s an orange day, isn’t it?” she asked.
An orange day?
Helen shook her head sadly. “Mom, let’s keep walking.” Helen gestured to me to take Gran’s elbow to get her moving again.
But I was starting to taste it, too. Orange. I squeezed Gran’s hand and we both smiled.
Suddenly she was younger. I was younger, maybe eight years old.
We were in her kitchen at the back of her house that was now mine.
It was a snowy day. She stood at the big enameled sink in the corner, washing dishes and putting them on the draining board to dry.
“Go into the pantry, Claire, and get the box grater for me, will you, sweetie?”
The tiny pantry smelled of spices and danced with color from the small stained glass window high up in the wall. I had to climb onto a stool to reach up into the cabinet where Gran kept her baking utensils.
When I swung the pantry door back open, it was like I had stepped into a good dream. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, smiling into his coffee mug.
Smiling.
Gran wiped her hands on her apron, then took a blue bowl of pillowy dough and turned it out onto a floured pastry board in the center of the table.
“Remember these sweet rolls, Jack? The ones with the cinnamon filling and the orange icing?”
My father looked up at Gran, and his eyes twinkled.
When he saw me hesitate, he reached out to pull me close and nuzzled my ear. I could feel his scratchy whiskers. “Are you going to help Gran make Daddy’s favorite rolls, Punkin?”
I put my arms around his neck and held on tight.
“It’s not every day your daddy starts a new job,” Gran said. “That’s an orange day.”
Gran rolled out the dough, spread it with softened butter, and sprinkled on the cinnamon and sugar. She rolled it up into a cylinder and Daddy cut the rolls with a bread knife, sawing through the dough so gently that each roll was a perfect spiral.
While the rolls baked, he helped me grate the orange rind and squeeze the juice into a bowl of powdered sugar to make the icing.
We frosted the warm rolls, the aroma wafting through the kitchen like a bright orange scarf that loosely bound us together.
An orange day, a happy day, a brand-new day in the secret language that only the three of us seemed to understand.
“Mmmmm,” Daddy said, taking a bite of his roll. “Orange wakes you up, but cinnamon makes you remember. I guess you can’t have a future without a past.” The brightness started to dim.
“The past is past, and nobody can change it. It’s what you do with your new day, Jack.” Gran looked at him seriously.
“I know it will work out this time, Ma. I’m putting all the other stuff behind me. Right, Punkin?” he’d said.
“Right, Claire?”
Helen was almost shouting.
“I heard you, I heard you,” I said.
The orange band faded and then vanished. Gran had a vacant look about her again.
But I felt calmer. Although I had a
Helen punched in the security code to the memory care wing. Sister Agnes, the nun from Emily’s preschool, was talking calmly to Gran, who looked like a bewildered doll sitting in a chair that was too big. I knew that the nuns who still lived at Mount Saint Mary’s went back and forth between the nursing home and the preschool, so I wasn’t surprised.
Sister smiled at us. “She has been a little agitated this morning,” she said. She smiled at Gran. “But I kept telling Dorothy that her two favorite people were coming to visit.” She reached over and patted Gran’s hand. “And here they are.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Helen said gently. “Mom, let’s walk a little bit. You were always the best walker around.”
“Walk,” Gran repeated weakly, as if she wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
We both helped Gran up from the chair and held on to her until she became steadier on her feet. Gran seemed to think more clearly when she was moving.
We meandered down the hall, while Helen chattered on.
Gran shuffled to a stop and turned to me. “It’s an orange day, isn’t it?” she asked.
An orange day?
Helen shook her head sadly. “Mom, let’s keep walking.” Helen gestured to me to take Gran’s elbow to get her moving again.
But I was starting to taste it, too. Orange. I squeezed Gran’s hand and we both smiled.
Suddenly she was younger. I was younger, maybe eight years old.
We were in her kitchen at the back of her house that was now mine.
It was a snowy day. She stood at the big enameled sink in the corner, washing dishes and putting them on the draining board to dry.
“Go into the pantry, Claire, and get the box grater for me, will you, sweetie?”
The tiny pantry smelled of spices and danced with color from the small stained glass window high up in the wall. I had to climb onto a stool to reach up into the cabinet where Gran kept her baking utensils.
When I swung the pantry door back open, it was like I had stepped into a good dream. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, smiling into his coffee mug.
Smiling.
Gran wiped her hands on her apron, then took a blue bowl of pillowy dough and turned it out onto a floured pastry board in the center of the table.
“Remember these sweet rolls, Jack? The ones with the cinnamon filling and the orange icing?”
My father looked up at Gran, and his eyes twinkled.
When he saw me hesitate, he reached out to pull me close and nuzzled my ear. I could feel his scratchy whiskers. “Are you going to help Gran make Daddy’s favorite rolls, Punkin?”
I put my arms around his neck and held on tight.
“It’s not every day your daddy starts a new job,” Gran said. “That’s an orange day.”
Gran rolled out the dough, spread it with softened butter, and sprinkled on the cinnamon and sugar. She rolled it up into a cylinder and Daddy cut the rolls with a bread knife, sawing through the dough so gently that each roll was a perfect spiral.
While the rolls baked, he helped me grate the orange rind and squeeze the juice into a bowl of powdered sugar to make the icing.
We frosted the warm rolls, the aroma wafting through the kitchen like a bright orange scarf that loosely bound us together.
An orange day, a happy day, a brand-new day in the secret language that only the three of us seemed to understand.
“Mmmmm,” Daddy said, taking a bite of his roll. “Orange wakes you up, but cinnamon makes you remember. I guess you can’t have a future without a past.” The brightness started to dim.
“The past is past, and nobody can change it. It’s what you do with your new day, Jack.” Gran looked at him seriously.
“I know it will work out this time, Ma. I’m putting all the other stuff behind me. Right, Punkin?” he’d said.
“Right, Claire?”
Helen was almost shouting.
“I heard you, I heard you,” I said.
The orange band faded and then vanished. Gran had a vacant look about her again.
But I felt calmer. Although I had a
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