The smell of it. That's what brought it on. That smell of warm butter, hot sugar and human love wafted up from my stove today and through my aching arm and my cluttered mind I found it, my past.
In an instant I was a flashback reel on an old black and white movie of my own life, small with cold feet standing on the linoleum floors of my grandmothers kitchen watching her fret over a pot of fudge being made behind her by my aunt who kept tisking her away when she started to interfere.
Waiting. Christmas felt like waiting back then. Wait for school to get out. Wait for Christmas eve to get a present, jammies and a book. Wait for the sound of Santa, but fall asleep before he comes. Wait for morning to open your stockings. Wait for Dad to FINALLY get up to open your stockings. Wait for time to go to Grandma's. Wait for Christmas dinner. Wait for presents when everyone's had pie. Wait till later until you have another piece of fudge.
I could smell it, all of December. It smelled like fudge, but it was just a simple sort of love.
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