Cold Feet, Warm Tortillas

Gran’s place always somehow seemed magical. From the circle of flowers to the faded yellow porch with the maca to rock on. I know now that it was an old, worn-down house, on an old-run down farm. Now it’s condos and tract homes. But I still remember where my tree house stood, where the lamb’s pen and the tire swing were. I still remember cold feet in the mornings and the taste of warm tortillas.

No two rooms were done the same, any carpet was threadbare; the linoleum old and worn, wood floors painted bright aqua, thick in spots where previous paint wasn’t sanded off. Gran kept her slippers beside her bed and never put her bare feet on the floor, but I was young. Old enough to do what I wanted, young enough to not care about the cold.
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