oceans memory

Light shone through the windows that used to carry the soft smell of cinnamon and nutmeg to the whole neighborhood. Now all it carries is the memory of her long white hair and the warm cookies she would make. Who could've ever guessed that she was unhappy. The way she smiled lit up everyone's world. And she would listen to you like you were the most important thing in her life. I guess no one ever listened to her. It was months after her… death that my mother finally called me to tell me that her long white eyelashes were no longer blinking, that her wrinkled soft hands were no longer needing cookie dough. I tried to listen as the priest rambled on about what a good person she was and how her "friends" were always there for her, although were they? The priest continued that although she died in a manner that God did not favor she was still loved by her family. I want to scoff out loud because if anyone had actually listened to her she wouldn't of had to… I couldn't even think of it my hands had been shaking and my eyes had been wet for almost 5 weeks. The fact that the priest could just discount how no one talked to her and no one listened to how she ever felt was disgusting to me. But then I remembered the last time I visited her was when I was 13. When I got the call that she was dead it was my 23rd birthday. Typical of my mother tell me on my birthday. That's one of the reasons we don't talk anymore. I wanted to drown in my thoughts of how much I loved my dear grandmother. but then, the priest said something that pulled me out of the depressed void that I had been living in.

 "Ms. Smith left her bakery to her dearest granddaughter, Annie .” When he says this my head whiped around. Sure I wasn't listening to my mom when she was talking about the technicalities of her will. But no matter how much I love my grandma I would not be able to take up the responsibility of looking after her bakery. I didn't know how to bake at all. she said that she had a secret recipe, she said she teach it to me when I was 18. I guess when I was in College I never really realized how much time she had left and I never went back to find out her secret recipe. In fact the last memory I have with my grandma is her trying to teach me how to make cookies. I was just looking at my phone waiting until the weekend could be over so I could go back to hanging out with my friends. The thought of that makes me sick. When the funeral procession is over pews screech and people start to leave I'm about to leave but then I remember I have to take over my grandmothers bakery. I exit church breathing in the clear Country air I realize I've missed that living in New York for the past five years. I get my old buggy and drive up the dirt road I remember going up so many weekends and vacations. It makes my tears well up when I remember not wanting to go and fighting my parents. I know the only way that I can make it up to my grandma is to make sure her bakery is OK. My mother will also be proud of me. In her eyes I’m an unemployed adult who tries to make money off of selling caricatures in Central Park. When I come over to my parents house it's never 

"Hi honey how are you doing "

Instead it's "how is your fake job " as I drive up the dirt roads covered in silver slush from the winter and orange yellow leaves falling from the sky, I decide not to think about my mother. Instead I have to think about how I'm going to find my grandmothers secret recipe. When I step into her house a wave, No tsunami comes to envelop me in memories. I try to shake them off because I know it'll only bring tears. Instead of crying I do what I know my grandmother would want me to do. I walk into our kitchen which she used as her "bakery" it's a strange standing in there without her cute decorations and the smell of cardamom wafting through the air like a ghost trying to find his soul. I decide I need to get ingredients I hop back into my car and drive through the small country grocery store. When I get there people are whispering. I recognize some of them my grandmothers church they're whispering stuff like

 "can you believe how she died" 

it's like they are trying to make me hear it. I ignore them and get the ingredients that I remember my grandmother using when she made her famous cookies. When I'm back in the kitchen I open the windows. I start to bake but after the first round of cookies come out they don't taste right. That's when the tsunami finally overtakes me I start to cry I cannot believe that I can't even make simple cookies. I can't make my grandmother proud. I'm so angry I kick the lower shelf in anger. Then I hear some thing it sounds hollow. I look down where the shelf is and I see a piece of wood that just doesn't quite fit in to the rest of the wood. I look around and see a potato masher I take it and bang the end as hard as I can against the shelf then… a jar falls out it's brown but tinted with a blue sparkle, I open it and smell. I smell my grandmother, I smell everything I smell the world. It wasn't ever cinnamon nutmeg or cardamom. It was this, this is the secret recipe. I close my eyes as tight as I can I'm so excited I found the secret recipe but when I open them I realize it was all a dream I'm still in her empty kitchen with no "secret ingredient" I'm about to give up but then I realize that dream wasn't exactly a dream. I realized that jar was a fictional representation of what the real secret ingredient is. Memory. I sit down and decide to let the memories overcoming me. And then I know. I’m ready to make her signature cookies.