I went to the bigger grocery store a little further away today. Better selection but higher prices. But I was shopping to stock the larder and it seemed like the right place to be. Some rather creepy guy seemed to be at every turn I made. Each time I hazarded a glance at him he was looking directly at me. I�d nod acknowledgment and then proceed on my way. He was just weird, and as previously mentioned, just downright creepy.

I�m home where I carefully crafted Mom�s meatloaf, pounding the peppercorns with the salt in the mortor and pestle, folding the tomato juice, rolled oats, and eggs into the ground meat. Slipping it into the warmed oven. Crushing the whole garlic cloves with the bottom of a glass directly into the Le Creuset skillet, not wanting to loose any of the precious oils onto a cutting board, searing the garlic gloves in oil then carefully caramelizing a onion, adding some julienned ham, and now the whole concoction is simmering in a rich chicken stock and cider vinegar to be reduced till nearly dry before finely adding the greens to wilt in the carefully crafted concoction. It�s cooking like I�ve not done in a long while, for myself, and I found my self rather hungry at this noon time hour. Not wanting to spoil my appetite, but not wanting to be FAMISHED by the time the meatloaf is ready either. Before I knew it I had five wheatworth crackers arranged on a small bone china plate, smeared with natural peanut butter, and a speck of jam, savoring their lovely simplicity with a glass of orange juice and then it happened. I was back in grandma Brunner�s kitchen. Sitting across from Grandpa the crackers and peanut butter sitting between us, our afternoon snack after working so hard in his splendid vegetable garden, sipping ice-cold orange juice in between the satisfying bites.

Silent, and yet sharing so very much.

My grief for the loss of Grandpa Brunner is so� simple and pure, and yet so connected to the guilt I feel for the loss of Grandpa Creamer. I was only fourteen but I wasn�t there for him at the end. I wasn�t allowed to be. His death was a stranger to me. It was nearly a full year before I was able to cry for his loss. But I was there for Grandpa Brunner, caring and loving him in between the visits from the hospice nurses, and I wish I was there for Grandpa Creamer. Or at least been allowed to see him in those last two weeks he was in the hospital having, what we thought, were rather mundane tests. Grief is odd, I�m glad I can feel it. I�m glad I can cry and sob my way through it, but why did it grab hold of me this way today? And all from crackers and peanut butter. Ice cold orange juice, sipped after each silently satisfying bite. Me, alone with my grief. Shuttering from the sobs.