Suzanne Bracewell

I would always reach for the highest basket: it was small, woven and brown. Avoiding the bumblebees and mosquitos we would plunge our fingertips into the deep, thorny bushes to fill our baskets with rapsberries. Fingers and lips stained red from the juice, stomaches full of fresh berries, we would sit on her porch and drink the tea she set out in the sun, next to the sundial that told us it was the afternoon. Lazily we would swing on the bench or the hammock, until sun down and we would go inside, pick one honeysuckle before dinner, and eat. She had a room full of dolls she handmade, I would go sit in and admire. Closets full of beautiful gowns she used to wear, and a large box full of ornate jewelry I would pin to myself. Her hair was always elegantly dark and mysterious, and her tall, statuesque demure made her elegant until the end. She would tell us silly rhymes that make no sense, but we would laugh and laugh to no end. She would paint small things, like pots or plates- and ooh and ahh at every stroke I attempted to create. She would read all of my stories with enthusiasm and taught me how to spell the word "friend". She made the best pot roast you would ever taste, and she used horseraddish on it- I hate horseraddish. In the spring we would walk down to the nearest pond and catch tadpoles, I imagined it would turn into a frog. They never did, she said they died, but I think she just returned them to their pond in secret. When I would ride the school bus to her house, she would perfectly time when to bring out freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and always kept vitamin D milk on hand (like Mom never would). She used to have a collection of Alaskan art, and a huge bear skin hung on the wall that my Gramps shot when he was younger. While he spent his afternoons making us dollhouses, or swords, she took us to play at the park- we would climb on the large tractor tires or up the rocky hill where we would sneak into rock caves and tell stories. When I would ask, she would rub my feet- she was the only person who would happily rub the feet of those she loved. She had extensive family photo albums where I could look at my Aunt and Mom for hours, imagining what they were like when they were young like me. When I was 14, she gave me her mother's golden locket with a note she typed on her computer (because she was technologically savvy) and my mom gave it to me when I was 21. She had this old poem hung on her wall about all the extravagant things she would do when she grew old...such as wear a large purple hat. I used to try to let her know she already was old. She used to laugh. When I lived in Australia, she would email me weekly to tell me things about her dog, her book club, or just things. On Christmas eve, we would go to her house to open gifts under the tree she kept in her bay window. Then we would sit by her fire place and crack open the nuts she set out seasonally. When she fell ill my mom knew right away, before she did. The hospice workers told me to write her a goodbye note. So I did. I never gave it to her on time. I think she knows I love her anyway.