I barely knew my grandmother even though she lived with us as she spent a lot of time in her bedroom and I was rather in awe of her. My knowledge of her life before I was born was scant because I didn’t think of asking her questions. She died when I was about six years old. But, there are certain things about her that I will always remember. One of them was the well-worn picture of what she called my living room. Whenever she saw me studying the faded black and white photograph with its rather motheaten corners, that started her off on a walk along memory lane and this is my impression of that place in her house that was so dear to her.
Persian carpets in her living room have lost their floral pile. Blue velvet curtains fringed and draped, have long gone out of style. Her walnut piano stands up straight against a papered wall. A green wing chair beside her desk displays a knitted shawl. A bookcase in the corner holds Shakespeare, leather bound. A huge brass pot contains the palm, her cat sleeps curled around. It smells of homegrown lavender, cedar, musk and embers; dried flowers in a Wedgwood bowl from fragrant past Septembers. Cabinets with glassed-in-doors have china on display. Venetian glass and Toby Jugs rest on a silver tray. Potpourri scent wafts from bowls perched on wooden stands, plus the glorious whiff from candy jars she passed from hand to hand. Grandma’s room, I love it so. I wish I’d told her then. Sadly, that was long ago. I can’t go there again.