Morning on the farm

Quilts heavy,

And warm.

Grandma made them,

Or maybe they were passed down.

Speaking of Grandma,

There she is, framed at the door

A silhouette, 

Barely visible in the dim hallway light.

“Time to get up,” she says in a voice

As warm and sweet as the pancakes she’s started,

bubbling on the griddle,

with syrup she made with sugar, water, and maple extract,

simmering gently on the stove.

We touch our feet timidly to the cold hardwood floor,

The harsh reality of a chill morning

Softened by the promise of what Grandma has in store.

There’s Grandpa at the table.

Dressed in a red plaid shirt, jeans and work boots,

He smells of woodsmoke,

Old Spice, 

And coffee.

He’s every grandkid’s dream-

Firm,

Yet fair,

Quiet,

Yet strong,

And not afraid to roll on the floor,

or hug you tight enough to take your breath away,

his grizzled chin rough on our cheeks.

Grandma and Grandpa speak quietly, almost murmuring,

About things they have to do,

And they talk to us, too,

Like the little people that we are,

About things we need to do and be,

Like school and chores,

Respecting our place and each other,

Appreciating us,

In this space

And time.

This early morning start to our day,

With the wood stove at full heat,

And pancakes drenched in butter and homemade syrup on our plates,

We know beyond any shadow of a doubt that this,

All of this,

Is love.