My son gave me a pair of slippers as an early Christmas gift. This morning, as I walked through the house, the sound they made brought memories of my grandmother.
When my sister and I were very young, we’d sometimes have sleepovers at Grandma’s and Grandaddy’s house. Their house had a wooden floor in the hallway and a linoleum floor in the kitchen, and Grandma was an early riser.
Tucked in, warm and cozy underneath the blankets, I’d wake up to the sound of Grandma’s slippers. They made a soft little shuffly pit-pat, first from from her bedroom to the kitchen, and then back and forth, across and all around the kitchen while she made breakfast.
When everything was ready, I’d hear the shuffly pit-pat come down the hallway. She’d open the door and softly tell us it was time to get out of bed; she’d made soft-boiled eggs and toast boats, come and get it. And so, our day would begin.
It’s funny how memories work, how they sometimes come out of nowhere, triggered by the littlest things. My memories this morning were brief but so clear, so specific. I felt the warmth of the blankets. I smelled the toast and butter. I heard my Grandma’s voice. For an instant, I was there, in my childhood, enveloped in happiness.
Here’s to Grandma, the sound of her slippers, and sweet mornings full of love.