Holy Ground

Finally a peaceful moment after a long morning. The baby wanted to be held, the two year old wanted to be…two. Sleeping children do wonders for the soul. Time to catch your breath. Time to look up and see who else is around.

Oma was in the kitchen cooking up a storm. The window propped open on a blustery day in Georgetown so the garlic base wouldn’t waft through the house. Alright by me if it did. I walked softly into the kitchen. Where a grandmother cooks is holy ground.

“Your name is beautiful,” she said to me stirring the pot. “But my English is bad and in Arabic you won’t know. Your family calls you what?”

“My family calls me Rie. It’s short for my name, Anne Marie.”

“Then I call you Rie too, because now you in our family. You need hot tea to take care of children. If you are warm they will be warm. You get me? Come and sit now with Oma.”

And I sat.

Irish grandmother’s and Egytian grandmother’s are incredibly alike.

Holy Ground

cribbs

Joined January 2008

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