The Miracle of Memories

A conversation i was having with a couple of friends today took me back to one of my favorite childhood memories. We were sitting at a lunch table and there were Keno cards beside us. One of my friends asked where the screen with the Keno numbers were. I had never played or even heard of Keno, but I recollected and began to talk about the remembrances I have of playing PoKeno at my grandmother's house.

I last lived with my grandma about 20 years ago. Her house was one of refuge. It was a place to go if you wanted to feel good. You didn't have to be good or smart or pretty to get into grandma's house. You just had to have a way to make it there. Sometimes I would ride my bike, the bus or beg for a ride. When I needed a few moments of safety, I found a way to my grandma's.
Each time I would mount the steps, the red rosebush that grew along the stoop rail, seemed to bend a little so that I would notice, touch and adore them before entering the home. Once inside, the gleeful braggings of card players, the beat of soulful music and the succulent aromas of southern comfort food, welcomed me. Very rarely if ever, were words of love ever expressed. They didn't have to be. It was clear. Grandma's house was filled with a love that went beyond words. The smiles, the sounds and the smells said it all.