Memoir: Memme and Isa

The guest room smelled of menthol and powder. Morning sun streamed in the window, a snow-covered winter world outside. Memme and Isa sat up in bed in crisp white pyjamas, her with a cryptic crossword in hand and him with his weather journal. Their faces opened to greet me, their six year-old granddaughter. “Good morning,” and, “Tere,” they said in thick, accented and beautiful deep voices. They patted the bed between them and I leapt up on the scratchy woolen Hudson’s Bay blanket and burrowed myself into the covers. The pancakes downstairs, with maple syrup and crispy bacon, could wait.