It's 8:30am and I wake to find that she has already gotten up to begin her morning routine. As I sneak up the stairs, I can hear the faint whisper of her reverent, consistent prayer from the kitchen. When I'm sure I won't disturb her, I slip out from behind the soft couch and wait for her to notice I'm awake. With her sing-song voice, she wishes me a good morning and kisses me softly on my forehead.
I run my fingers through my long matted hair and remember that I had fallen asleep with it damp the night before. Normally, I would ask her to brush it for me - it was too long for my short arms now - but arthritis now made it too painful for her.
Smelling the familiar eggs and toast, I shuffle into the kitchen. I glance at her scriptures as I make my way to my stool, noting that she made it from 2nd Nephi to Enos since the last weekend I had spent with her two weeks previous. I don't understand how she can read so fast! I can't read more than a chapter without nodding off...
"How dark do you want your toast? Did you want some scrambled and one with yoke for dipping?"
"Umm, not too dark. And good idea!" I pour the orange juice and chuckle to myself. She always knows what I want. Why doesn't she ever have real milk, not just powdered?
I take a sip and ask, "Grandma, why don't you ever have real milk?"
"I can't digest it anymore, so I have the powdered kind and I can get the vitamins without the tummy-ache," she smiles as she slides the warm eggs in front of me. "Do you want to eat these in the other room with your lap-tray? Go turn on your cartoons and I'll get one down for you, dear."
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