On Sunday afternoons, Great Aunt Martha’s little black Studebaker would pull into our driveway and Aunt Martha and Grandma would emerge for “the visit”. They would often bring fresh flowers from their gardens, wrapped in tissue paper with a damp rag surrounding the bottom of the stems.
As soon as the flowers were placed in an appropriate vase, I was summoned to the piano. I would play several tunes, usually my current lesson pieces from the week. They would clap their hands and exclaim what a wonderful pianist I was. Hugs were exchanged and the smell of lemon and lavender followed them out the door.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers.
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