Visits to her meant haircuts, with hot, bulky clippers buzzing too close to fearful ears.  Visits meant “yes ma’am” and children should be seen and not heard.  Visits meant exile at the kids’ table wishing for a seat with the grownups.   Visits meant eat everything on your plate, yes even the Brussels sprouts, stay out of Uncle Frank’s room, and don’t go too close to the road. 

And visits meant doughnuts—fresh, homemade doughnuts, still spreading grease on paper towels, and too hot to eat.  They meant a quick trip to the pond because maybe the fish were biting.  They meant a football game with cousins in the backyard.

And after everyone else was in the car for the long drive home, visits meant a candy bar stuffed into a child’s anxious sweaty hand, a ruffle of the hair, a briefest of hugs, and a come back soon.

I remember Nana.  I remember chocolate.

© 2009 Michael Shepherd. Original for CCF. (Shepherd grants CCF first electronic rights for one month; CCF may archive the material indefinitely and include it in an eBook anthology).