The sweet scent of apple pie engulfs me the second I walk into my grandmother’s house. I like to close my eyes for a second, just to take it all in. I know there will soon come a time when this beautiful scent will no longer welcome me home, so I take a moment just to savor it. When I open my eyes, I am immediately greeted by hundreds of smiling faces. My grandmother has pictures scattered across every wall in her entry way. A lot of the pictures are blown up, in neat frames that my grandpa built himself, but just as many are smaller, stuck wherever my grandma could find space. I take a moment to enjoy these as well. When I was younger, I had this fascination with the photographs. I could spend hours staring at my aunt’s wedding picture and my dad’s picture with his first car. I would feel such an exhilarating importance when I saw my school picture right up next to the pictures of my older cousins. Of course, my grandmother’s picture collection has grown progressively since then. Over the years, I have found myself looking at them less and less. But today, I take a long moment to memorize each picture that I haven’t yet noticed, and let my eyes run over the pictures that I memorized so long ago.
I walk up the steps that lead into the kitchen loudly, so she will hear me. As my grandmother has gotten older, her hearing has started to deteriorate.
“Katie! Is that you?” She calls when I’m halfway there. I hurry up the rest of the stairs and find her standing with her back to me, hunched over dozens of apple slices and her walker surrounding her like a cage.
“Yeah, Grandma. It’s me. Do you need any help?” I say tenderly.
“Would you mind finishing this last pie up for me? I’m awful tired.”
“Of course I can.” Slowly, we walk together to the couch where I help her lay down. This past winter, she fell on some ice and fractured her hip. She quickly assured my mom that it was ‘just a little bruise’ but we later found out that it was much more. X-rays and MRIs proved that surgery was a must and just two days later, she was in surgery. Three screws were placed in the side of her hip before she was sewed back up and ready for months of physical therapy. It’s been a long road, and there is still progress to be made.
Once my grandma is situated, I make my way back into the kitchen, picking up where my grandma left off.
“Now don’t you forget how I taught you!” She calls out from her makeshift bed. “You’re the only one who can make a pie as good as mine! And for the love of God, don’t put anything weird in it like your Aunt does. It’s called an apple pie for a reason! I’ll never forget that Thanksgiving. You probably weren’t even five years old yet..”
I smile and let her ramble on about the time my Aunt ruined her precious Thanksgiving apple pie. I’ve heard the same story over a hundred times and usually I tend to tune it out. Today, however, I pay attention to every word. I laugh at all the right spots and ask all the right questions because I know there will come a time when I will not be able to. This story, like the scent of apple pie, and the smiling faces of my family hanging on the walls is all a part of being at my grandma’s house. It is a part of my childhood that, through the years, has become a part of me.