When I think of my Meme, I smell Noxema and can vividly picture her, standing in the kitchen of her house on Seneca Street. Until she moved to Maine when I was nine, I spent most every weekend with Meme, in that house. She taught me how to color in-between the lines and built clothespin roads for my cars. As she cut my sandwiches into triangles and transformed them into sailboats with toothpick masts and napkin sails, I learned that a little bit of scotch tape goes a long way. One day, we even built a spaceship with an empty box that was taller than I was! When she moved to Maine, I spent my summer vacations in her cottage where she taught me how to win Scrabble and we'd play rummy in her sun porch. Each night at dinner, I'd always enquire about the following night's home cooked meal. If you've had Meme's meals, you know why I was so excited. If you've had our Tootie-Fruitie Pancakes, then you know why I was so excited. Over the past seven years, I've been lucky enough to have my Meme as close to me as down-the-hall. These are years that I will never take for granted. She was there when I went to Prom and when I graduated high school. We watched American Idol. She has asked me for writing advice and has shined her light over many of my friends. Mem has supported all of my endeavors and as I conquer my next journey, I know that my Meme will be there with me, holding my hand, every step of the way. And whenever I sprinkle the sugar on my cornflakes, AFTER I pour the milk, I will think of her.
Our Little Flower