The bar

I tear up as I write: It's late. I'm sitting at the bar in grandma Betty's house, twisting on the old wooden barstools, and eating a bowl of ice cream. The freezer was empty, save for the last lonely carton from Braum's. Grandma loved ice cream. It hit me that I'll never eat at this bar again. It's a great bar, running the length of the kitchen.

It's always been a connection point in the house. I'd meet my brother or cousins here crunching their way through bowls of breakfast cereal, receive grilled cheese sandwiches from Grandma in the kitchen, pass dirty plates back to Grandpa washing dishes in the sink in front. At this bar I progressed from CountryTime lemonade to 7up to beer to highball drinks.

From this chair, I still still half-expect to see Grandma shuffle in from around the kitchen corner, and watch her light up in delight at seeing one of her grandkids.

But she's gone. And soon we will be too. Tomorrow, and early, we will leave this house for the last time. With a but of luck, the house will sell quickly and somebody else will own the bar. The barstools and the old parfait glass with the puddle of melted ice cream will be sold and scattered, perhaps $100 for the set of barstools, four parfait glasses for a dollar. Time to move on.

I will remember this bar.