It’s 11:43am and I’m leaving my dentist appointment, upper-left half of my mouth numb from novocaine. I don’t want to go home, I want my grandmother, a Pavlov-like response from when I had braces; following every appointment I would walk from the dentist office home to where she was waiting. That was middle school - I’m 30 now.
I stomp the snow off my boots as she opens the door and after I kick them off and hang up my coat, she brings me a sandwich, asking if I’ve eaten. It’s beyond comforting, it’s coming home in an almost tangible way.
I want to sit across from her and talk for hours, I want to listen to her talk about my great-grandmother, growing up with my great-uncles. I want to sit at her feet, helping her sort through pictures, helping her plan her scrapbook.
Instead, she offers up muffins and coffee and we talk about everything I can possibly think up and more. We gossip. She laments the price of butter and I sympathize.
When it’s time for me to go, she sends me home with baked goods and a kiss on the cheek.