Spring Blossoms

I must be awake, yet my lids are pressed together and I know I'm not dreaming. Once I make the conscious effort to open my eyes, they bring into focus the quaint little room covered in lush blue wall- to- wall carpet. Little by little, the content of the room takes shape: the white drawing table and the familiar European art deco style three way mirror with built-in little drawers and small cabinet doors. Not far away, the smoothly polished double door armoire brings back the memory of dear faces, previous owners of some of these furniture pieces. My mother and her younger sister prided themselves in having similar taste and long-long time ago; they had identical furniture made for their homes. Old memories haunt me in the home of a young family...

It must still be night by my time, but I hear the clatter of little feet rushing on the bare hardwood floor in the house, on the level above my room. I jump out of bed and after a quick shower and some minimal beautifying touches, I hurry up the steps to discover which one of my little dolls woke up first this morning.

As I rush through the dining room and return the gracious greeting of the lovely magnolia tree by smiling at her through majestic bay window facing the street. "The dusty rose heavy blossoms of yesterday have turned overnight into a mauve dream, covered in velvety pink dew.

One peak in the direction of the kitchen reveals the smiling face of a little redhead, tucked in her specially modified high "tsair". There is a bright smile on her round little face, the pudgy red cheeks seem to shine and her dark eyes look enormous. She sees me and starts waving her chubby arms, giving me the best, warmest welcome. Then she looks on the floor and is ready to start the day:

"Banks, banky, peas!"

Of course, the usual demands... I notice her once pink, now of indescribable color ever-abused blanket on the floor, lift it and hand it to her. She grabs it while the small little dot above her chin utters "thanks." I just smile at her, forgetting to answer, ever wondering how can a little two-year-old understand the use of "thank you."

"Mik, mik", she continues her orders as I am already in the proximity of the fridge to fill her green sippy cup with the wonderful white liquid, "full strength" rather than the two percent version I drink. I also fill her Elmo bowl with "pop", cereal in her language, not to be confused with "pops", which is used for ice cream. I pour "mik" over the "pop", place a small spoon in it and hand it to her. She watches me with expectancy in her eyes and I wonder "What else"?

"Pom-pom," she says triumphantly, naming the equivalent of napkin in her vocabulary.

"Anything else, your little Highness?" I laugh out loud now. She reciprocates, without saying a word, as she ceremoniously takes the napkin from my hand and places her sippy cup on it.

To me this procedure is mind boggling, as I see the routine at every meal and tell myself I must get used to having a well-mannered granddaughter. Her daddy, taking all this for granted, assures me that there is nothing unusual about it and the credit probably goes to the part time Nanny.