It is early morning and I know I need to go fix breakfast for myself.
Sitting here, I am wishing I could smell the smell of someone else frying bacon. That’s how I woke up many mornings as a child.
I lived with my grandmother for much of my childhood, and she cooked bacon and eggs whenever she had them. It was comforting to wake up to the smell of her cooking and the sounds of her moving around in the kitchen as she prepared breakfast.
Is that ME now? Do my sons, when they’re here, enjoy hearing me in the kitchen when I’m cooking? Does the smell of bacon, sausage or whatever I’m making, warm their hearts in the mornings like Nanny’s cooking warmed mine?
Why don’t we appreciate our older relatives while they live? Why does it take memories to truly make us appreciate what they did for us and what they meant to us? Or does it take their absence to show us just how much we will miss them.
For granted. We take too many things for granted in this world.