I awoke at five and made a pot of coffee. I poured one cup for me and I thought of you, again — one cup instead of two was filled and refilled. I checked the garden. It’s doing well, just thought you would like to know that the Okra is bountiful — I remember how you love Okra — and the tomatoes are turning just enough to pick for fried-green-tomatoes. I remember them being one of yours and Papa’s favorite side dishes. August will be here soon and I’ll plant two long rows of red potatoes on the 16th, just like Papa and you always did, although I don’t have a long wooden side porch raised up off the ground to store and season them off. I think the garage will do. I grew up. I don’t live in rural like you and Papa did for all those years. I live in suburbia where rows of houses set on slabs have no porches but do have attached garages and manicured lawns. And they all have fences around the back yards. Not fences for keeping cows and hogs in (or out of the garden) but fences because we like our privacy from others as we aren’t as neighborly as you were, it seems.
I thought of you again, today and so wished I could have poured two cups of coffee this morning instead of only one. One for you, Nannie, and one for me, the granddaughter who loves you so.