Some stories don’t need polishing.
They don’t come wrapped in lessons or tied up with poetic endings.
They just are —
quiet truths that live in your bones without asking permission.

This one came back to me recently,
like it always does when I hear a certain breeze
or catch the faintest smell of something cooking on a stovetop
that don’t even exist anymore.

It’s not about being close.
It’s not about grand gestures.
It’s just about pancakes.
And love.
And the kind of enough that stays with you forever.

---

When I was a little girl, we lived close to my mom’s parents.
It was just a short dirt road walk from our little house to their big house.
We didn’t live there long — maybe one year.

When it was summer, most every morning,
my brother and I would race down the dirt road to Gramma and Grandpa’s,
kicking up little dust particles with our bare feet —
seeing who would get there first.
I don’t recall who won. It never mattered.
We were heading for pancakes and to see Grandpa
before he went out to start his farm chores.

We’d slide through that back screen door porch
and onto the black and white tiled kitchen floor…
Grandpa sitting at the table with his coffee and a saucer —
he always poured his coffee in the saucer and drank it —
his farm cap on the table beside him,
and Gramma at the stove, flippin’ pancakes.

A good stack would usually be on the table when we got there.
We never sat down but gathered around Grandpa
as he told us a little tale or two.
Gramma would say, “Ya’ll wait until yer Grandpa’s had his fill
and then you can have what’s left.”

Grandpa would get finished, stand up, place his cap firmly on his head,
pat us both on the head, smile, and tell us,
“Now you fellers be good today.”

When he walked out, Gramma would say,
“Okay… you can have what’s left.”

There was still a huge stack on the table.

Those were the best pancakes ever.
I don’t know what she put in them.
I’ve never had pancakes like that since.

We didn’t eat them with syrup.
Didn’t sit at the table.
We just grabbed them from the plate and ate them.

Years later, after I was grown,
I realized there was always going to be enough pancakes.
No matter what.
Even if we did have to wait for Grandpa to get finished.
Because Gramma always made sure that plate was full… for us.

---

I was probably five years old.
And now that I’m older, I still think about that plate —
how it never emptied.
How even when we had to wait,
there was always something left.

That’s what I remember most about her.
Not the age she made it to.
Not the years between visits.

Just the pancakes.
And the quiet kind of love that makes sure the plate is always full —
even if you don’t know yet what that means.

🌻 Thanks for sittin’ a spell!

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