Queen of the Sugar Plum Kingdom

Queen of the Sugar Plum Kingdom

Nana.
She was the pine trees.
She is.
Passing, surrounding our 4-wheel drive as we wound through rocky Vermont.
Staring up into the mountains, grey boulders carved out of cliffs.
A small town.
She stood
Solid, like the state’s beautiful forests — maple, pine and birch.
Hugging us in spirit with her stature.
A regal woman.
Grounded, and centered like a stoic tree,
Wise, formal,
Yet gentle.
I knew that her foundation was firm, a place to softly land, an unspoken welcome.
“Rest here.”
Rest.
A quiet morning, serene with freshly falling snow.
She stood standing, in her kitchen, always warm. A preheating oven shielding the crisp mountain air. Where grandpa found the elegant Christmas tree, now an adorned kitchen backdrop. Twinkling.
Nana twinkled there, too.
The aroma of sugar cookies, pine trees and fresh snow.
Peace.
We trodded softly, my sister and I, our hearts filled with warmth, from
Feelings of lightness, and the crackling, glowing wood-stove.
Records spinning. Dean Martin.
Nana’s homemade sugar cookies.
She stirred her icing, pale white crystals, a flowing, syrup.
Two sisters dribbled it over those decectably thin sugar cookies — Santas, snowmen, perhaps even a sheep — we topped the shapes, proudly. Sprinkles.
Slowly; the cookies were delicate.
We were delicate.
Life was simpler, then.
Whispers.
“Was there truly a sleigh in the wood shop downstairs?”
Bells, chimes, and feelings of magic. Wide-eyed.
Red cardinals visting the landscape were curious, too. Perched atop the arms of more forest branches, outside.
Fluttering, brushstrokes of vibrant color on an endless white canvas —
Fluffy, smooth, white comforter.
Peaceful.