The Color of the Flowers

GladLast night I repayed many similar evenings in kind by having my Dad and Grandma over for dinner.

We love having people over in general, but last night--the food turned out great, conversation was flowing--the evening just gelled.  And all the little burrs--the ones that every family has--just melted away.

It was one of those times when, both my Grandmother and I, both infamous shutterbugs, somehow forgot to be.  But sometimes it's not necessary . . . . 

There's almost a catalog of snapshots, in my head--times when I didn't have a camera or when a picture just wouldn't do . . . . riding the huge ferris wheel in Paris . . . . playing in the snow with my Mom one day when I was little, her cheeks rosy from the cold . . . . the rice fields near where my Dad lives, full of water, glinting in the sunrise . . . . the stars the first night I kissed Sweet Husband, the early Spring chill in the air . . . . and despite the lack of photographs I can still remember each scene in incredible detail.

There was one of those last night--Grandma sitting in the kitchen, keeping me company as I chopped vegetables, with these beautiful gladiolus I had gotten at the farmer's market just in the background; the peachy flowers just perfectly setting off her skin and hair.  I think I'll be every day of eighty myself before I forget the color.