I hadn’t spoken that name in decades.
Suddenly, fragments of childhood memories began returning.
A warm kitchen.
The smell of freshly baked pies.
A little white house with a porch.
A kind woman who used to let me sprinkle flour across the table.
I remembered calling her Aunt Maggie.
Mom had always told me she was an old family friend who’d moved away when I was young.
I’d assumed she’d passed away long ago.
At the bottom of the photograph, someone had written an address.
I recognized the street.
It was in the neighborhood where I’d spent so many afternoons as a little girl.
I checked that Mom was resting comfortably, left her a note, and drove across town.
The little white house was still there.
Its porch had been replaced, and the landscaping was different, but I recognized it.
I stood beside my car, staring at the front steps.
Memories came flooding back.
I remembered sitting there with a bowl of strawberries.
