She closed her tired eyes and savored the warm golden broth. The soup had been her grandmother’s specialty, a staple of cold, rainy afternoons.
But since Mema’s unexpected passing earlier in the year, this cherished dish had taken on an almost ethereal quality.
From the first chop of celery until the last treasured spoonful, Emily could feel her unmistakable presence. Then she would hear her grandmother’s quiet serenade, that untrained, distinctive voice humming off-key lullabies through the rising steam.
It became a welcome comfort, one she could never explain to another soul and one she never had a desire to…
The Weekday One Hundred 