Gran

She had a large house, just outside of Harvard Square in Cambridge. As a child, going to Gran’s house for Thanksgiving or for an informal holiday was a treat of the highest order. When you pushed the doorbell, a buzzer rang from the depths of the house and the red door swung open as if by magic.

The good smells wafted down the stairs and wrapped around your nose. You climbed up the steep brown steps while holding onto the smooth handrail. You looked out of the small side window by the landing, and the old dark carved wood furniture greeted you after you had been hugged and kissed.

This sewing box sat on the third floor, in an otherwise empty corner. I never saw Gran actually use it, but I can imagine her prowling through it as a youngster, even as I did.

Kate, August 2002