scents of cinnamon and spice waft through the kitchen. the monkey bread smells almost done.
i fluff the pillows and straighten things up in the living room as we wait for our guests to arrive.
moving back to the kitchen, i pull out my bright green colander and some colourful fresh fruit for washing.
strawberries, raspberries and bright green grapes.
washing carefully, i methodically hull and quarter the strawberries. i remove the stems of the grapes. as i place them mixed in my favourite bowl, i add the raspberries. but not before i pop one in my mouth.
in an instant, i am transported through time.
i am ten years old, in my granny's garden looking for the biggest, ripest raspberries, trying not to take them all from the same area.
i am running with my brother or a cousin past the property line marked by tall grasses and rocks. i am hopeful that the old school house will be open for exploration like it was just that one time. i am hopeful that i haven't collected too many wood ticks.
i am visiting the crates filled with bunnies. i pause at the babies and stick my finger through the wire to feel soft white fur.
i am watching my grandpa chop wood and stack it carefully in the pile, row upon row for a winter's worth of warmth.
i am cleaning the playhouse. organizing empty spice jars filled with twigs and rocks and opening the window for fresh air.
i am hearing my granny's voice, calling me in for lunch. homemade soup, fresh warm bannock, raisin spice cookies, grandpa's favourite.
and then the doorbell rings, our guests are here. i shake my head into today and smile.
and i have another raspberry.