Mornings in Blue Springs
Part One: The Uninvited
Mornings in Blue Springs always start the same way. I wake up at first light when most of my neighbors are still asleep. At 78, one appreciates each new day as a gift.
To be honest, though, some days are more like an ordeal—especially when my joints ache so badly that even walking to the bathroom becomes a feat. My little house on Maplewood Avenue isn’t what it used to be. The wallpaper in the living room has faded over thirty years, and the wooden porch steps creak louder each spring.
George, my husband, was always going to fix them, but never got around to it before his heart attack. Eight years have passed, and I still talk to him sometimes in the mornings, telling him the news as if he’s just gone out to the garden and will be back soon. This is the house where my children, Wesley and Thelma, grew up.
Everything here remembers their baby steps, their laughter, and their fights. Now it seems like those happy, noisy days never happened. Thelma comes in once a month, always in a hurry, always looking at her watch.
Wesley shows up more often, but only when he needs something. Usually money, or a signature on some paperwork. Every time he swears he’ll pay it back soon, but in fifteen years he’s never paid it back.
Today is Wednesday, the day I usually bake blueberry pie. Not for me, because I can’t eat that much on my own. It’s for Reed, my grandson—the only one in the family who visits me without an ulterior motive.
Just so he can spend time with his old grandmother, drink tea, talk about his college business. I hear the gate slam, and I know it’s him. Reed has a peculiar gait—light, but a little clumsy—as if he’s not used to his tall stature yet.
He inherited it from his grandfather. “Grandmother Edith,” his voice comes from the doorway. “I smell a specialty pie.”
“Sure you do,” I say, smiling, wiping my hands on my apron.
“Come on in. It’s just about the right temperature.”
Reed leans over to hug me. Now I have to tilt my head back to see his face.
It’s weird. When did he get so big? “How’s school going?” I ask, sitting him down at the kitchen table.
“Still struggling with higher math. I got an A on my last exam,” Reed says proudly, eating his pie. “Professor Duval even asked me to work on a research project.”
“I always knew you were smart.” I pour his tea.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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