I hadn’t seen it for years
It was the bowl she used to mix her homemade rolls
Large and heavy
Ceramic, I imagine it to be a wedding present
She never spoke of its origin

My gramma’s been gone for many years
Her home stood empty for six years
I became caretaker
I stood alone in her unkempt kitchen
I felt her presence
A calling to make her rolls filled my spirit

I told my Dad I planned to make Gramma’s rolls
Do you remember her special bowl, I asked
Yes, I have it.
May I use it to make her rolls
You can have it
I will treasure it

Whenever I make her rolls
I make them in my grandma’s bowl
The bowl and the rolls keep me connected to her
And keeps her memory alive
As I measure and mix the ingredients
I see her in her kitchen mixing, kneading, and dipping them in the melted butter
Gently placing them in the pan
I remember counting the minutes, tempted by the aroma of baking rolls
Gramma’s rolls were on the table every holiday and special occasion

It may be time to get out Gramma’s bowl and make her rolls