Mary Hansen

I remember when I could fit through the gate at my grandmother’s townhouse just a mile away from our home. My mom would have to wait at the locked gate, but I could turn sideways and slip through the wide bars. I would run up the stairs to the door and wait for my grandmother. The first thing she would do when we came inside was move the white porcelain ducks from the coffee table to a high shelf.  Every time we came over, up went the ducks.

My grandparents lived in a 4-story town house - a large living room on one level, a dining room and kitchen on another, and bedrooms and bathrooms on the top level. The fourth level was the 2-car garage under the whole house  They even had a dumbwaiter to help carry the groceries from the car, up two levels to the kitchen.

Theirs was a home that was full of love and laughter and food, but not a home for little kids to play in. My sisters and I never even thought of running around their house. But still, every time, up went the ducks.

I remember thinking something big, but subtle, had changed the first time she left the ducks on the coffee table when I came for a visit. I no longer could turn sideways and fit through the front gate. And eventually the ducks came to me, not because I particularly loved them, but because I loved my grandmother.