My taxi stopped by a big garth with new fence and wooden gates. The black pitch-pined house with painted blue crystal-clean windows, hanged against the apple garden. A thin and long walkway strolls to the blue door with a big opened lock. Inside, the smell of a freshly baked wheat bread tickles my nose. Dancing red, blue, and yellow sparkling lights still crunching a piece of wood in the old furnace, which still smells smoky from freshly baked goodies. On furnace counter, under a housewifes apron the yeast-dough grows mushrooms, by it, on the plate, fresh cake with scripture Welcome home, honey on it. The yellow clay-made pitcher with goat milk plunks on the covered table. She knew I was coming.
I walked around, remembering the place I stayed every summer. The tick-tack-clock, which sometimes wouldnt let me sleep, still counts the time, happily moving its ticker. On the wall, a black-and-white photo of my grandmothers wedding forty years ago, a portrait of my grandfather that I saw in Gods acre last summer. I was born long after my grandfather died, even my own mother never saw her father-in-law. There I am, on our family picture, which I gave to my grandmother 20 years ago, and she still keeps it in a frame that I made from pieces of wood from her apple garden. It reminds her of me from time to time. Carefully moving my eyes from corner to corner of an old, black-and-white picture, I gaze on the familiar faces of my childhood, remembering where everyone is. My older sister just got married and went back to college; my younger brother is traveling around the world, taking pictures and sending it to me on every Christmas. My mom works in a bank, and my dad sells cars. How fast time goes. I, still single, and moving from job to job like a squirrel in a wheel, spared some time to visit the best grandmother in the whole world. She is probably working on the fields, and should be back soon. It is getting close to sunset; I will just hang out here and trip back to my childhood.