My son said dinner was canceled, but when I got to the restaurant…

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 30 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 15 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 gate, 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 said, smiling, wiping my hands on my apron.

Come on in, it’s just about the temperature. Reed leans over to hug me. Now I have to tilt my head back to see his face…