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I love the smell and feel of her little kitchen. The girlie curtains, the little table with a view, and all her diet “talk.” She treats me with special attention every time I’m over. Especially when I’m there alone with her and not outside or in the basement playing with her boys.
She’s like my own mother, and sometimes I feel better here than two doors down in my own house. There’s always a treat for me and a special pat on the head or back. Her supply of hugs is endless. She sews for me and when I’m sick I come to her couch. I’ve never been to anyone else’s house when I was sick and this only happened once.
Again and again – without explanation – this little girl goes to Mrs. Rice’s house and I guess she could be my “sitter” but I feel like just another one of her kids.
I remember well the night she had her little girl and the horrible night little Monica stopped breathing. But everything turned out well even though we were all scared.
Later in life, I know why those those visits to her house were so precious. My parents actually had spared me some of their problems at home by sending me two doors down.
How precious it is, to revisit those memories, again.