The rain has been falling since dawn—a steady, whispering drizzle that turns the streets into liquid mirrors. I spent the morning curled up on the windowsill with a mug of chamomile tea, watching droplets race each other down the glass. It’s days like these that make me think of Grandma’s attic, where the scent of old books and cedar trunks clung to the air like a secret.
I stumbled upon a box of Polaroids today, tucked behind a stack of National Geographic magazines from the ’90s. Faded edges, smudged colors—photos of Mom as a teenager, grinning in a sunflower field, her hair wild and untamed. There was one of Uncle Leo playing the harmonica on a porch swing, and another of a black-and-white cat (long gone now) named Sir Whiskers von Scratchington. I laughed until my ribs hurt, then cried a little too. Funny how memories ambush you when you least expect them.
Later, I tried to recreate Mom’s infamous "Disaster Cookies" (she once mistook salt for sugar—a legend in our family). Mine turned out slightly less catastrophic, though they still resembled charcoal briquettes. I ate three anyway, just to spite perfection. The recipe card, stained with vanilla extract and decades of fingerprints, is now taped to my fridge like a trophy.
Around 4 PM, the power went out. No lights, no Wi-Fi—just the rhythmic tap-tap of rain and the occasional grumble of thunder. I lit candles (vanilla-scented, because drama) and dug out my old portable record player. Played Harvest Moon by Neil Young on scratchy vinyl, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in amber.