Foggy foggy dew

As I padded downstairs this morning I glimpsed the fog through the window of my past. I was 14 and spending the summer with my grandparents in Pennsylvania. There, on that hill, mornings were always blanketed by low lying clouds offering wet kisses to their tomato and pepper plants. That summer my wake up call rang with the smell of bacon. In my whole life I only remember Nana cooking bacon on a weekday.

So this morning I cooked bacon. Standing before the stove, barefoot, and in my robe, I wondered if the little ones would be ushered down the stairs by their nose, as I was when I was younger. And I wondered more if my grandmother enjoyed growing old. Or did she fight it, as I'm fighting it, not wanting to give up the excitement of youth as I'm being lulled by softer comforts that come with age.