It’s raining out. I think of you grandmother when it rains. Your old country ways. The ting ting sound hitting the tin roof. The smell of fresh biscuits baking in the oven. I think of you. I remember running around the house cutting off all the lights, covering all the mirrors, sitting quietly waiting for the rain to stop.
I remember you. You were already so old then. Your hands so brittle you needed my help to sift the flour. I would run to the back and take the eggs out the chicken coupe, picking the berries off the bush. Cutting squares of fabric to use in your next quilt.
I think of all these things when a thunderstorm comes and I feel comforted that you sent it my way. The rain to wash away all the day’s fears. You always said that the lord was talking to us when he flashed the light across the sky and banged the pots above our heads.
It’s raining out. I think of the smell of the water hitting the red Carolina clay dirt. Walking out into it and feeling the dew underneath my feet. I can remember it all because you made such an impact.
I miss you Ms. Bea
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