Viola

The mornings spent at my grandparent’s house were special, simply because it was with them. I’d watch the sky fade from a radiant red to a basic blue. The same blue it always was when I looked up while running around outside. They were Christians, but in the yard, there were always wandering Jews. My grandmother’s favorite, she’d tend to them a little more carefully than she would the other flowers. I’d sit and watch Barney on the small TV in the backroom, he’d sing me songs about cleaning up and being kind. But my personal favorite PBS character was the vampire from Sesame Street. I always admired his fangs. For breakfast, My grandfather would slap jelly on some toast. My grandmother, Viola, always had an aroma of Elizabeth Taylor’s perfumes. I can’t quite explain it, but if sophistication had a scent, that would be it. She would braid my hair after breakfast. She wanted me to look presentable when I went outside to stomp on the lilacs in the neighbor’s yard. She’d always add little barrettes to my hair, shaped like flowers and butterflies. My brother would always yell that they looked like grapes holding onto my hair as I ran past him. Before the mornings were over, my grandpa would sit close to the window and peel a plum for us. Then we’d watch the sky fade from a basic blue back to a radiant red. They aren’t with me now, but the smell of Passion and the taste of plums always brings me back.