Rosette Prompt One

The house that my grandparents' lived in always did harbor dust. However, I think you're allowed a certain amount of dust in your house when you're older. And not because you, yourself are older, but because maybe your things are. These old, antiquated possessions deserve the seasoning that can quickly dignify them as objects that have perhaps seen more than the observer. And my grandparents' had a lot of those. This dresser, that clock, these lamps. I was used to being the youngest thing in that house for quite a long time. I never minded. No matter what I did or where I went, there was always more to see, do and discover in that old house. I would sock-slide across the exposed wood floors of the entry way and living room into the kitchen where the sunlight would pour in around me. It's then that she, my grandmother, would find me. Jingling into the kitchen from the creaking back door, she would be pinning her curly hair up, and smelling of french perfume baked into her from the summer sun. Everything was yellow in those moments, the kitchen, the singing canary, my grandmother. She would fetch me the coldest water. No ice, but mint. The water from the tap at that house was always so perfectly cold and crisp. I would sip my water as she fussed with my hair, smoothing, braiding, and pinning. Ever since my grandmother died and my grandfather moved out of that house, I've often dreamed of that water. It sounds ridiculous but I have searched and tried too desperately to re-create that perfect taste. There is most certainly a chance that I will never succeed. But I think there might be more to that water than the fresh mint and the mineral balance from the water ditstrict. And I may just have to collect some dust of my own to figure out what that is.