I took in a breath of fresh air and smelled the scent of a typical spring morning: the delicate scent of magnolias—the white ones that my grandma liked to grow, the whiff of honey cookies she would bake, and the waft of wildflowers, honeysuckle, and the damp earth after last night’s dispersed showers.
It was cozy inside the cabin. The breeze swept through the kitchen window, propped open to let nature in. Little rays of sunshine swept through small cracks in the wooden walls. Trees loomed tall around the cabin, towering over and casting shadows despite the harsh sun beating down at noon.
I looked to my right and saw my grandma sitting on her old wooden rocking chair while knitting a blanket. When she noticed my gaze, she met my eyes and smiled at me. Her wrinkled face glowed, her distant eyes crinkled, and her hair was thick and gray. Despite her age, her barely-faded beauty shone through her yellowing dress. I glanced at the window then down at the tray of cookies I had just taken out of the oven.
Memento Mori
Alieyah Ordillano