My paternal grandparents
Ethel and Harold Murrell
Missing you. It always hits me near Thanksgiving.
I close my eyes grandma and I am back sitting at the table in your tiny kitchen. The smell of fresh baked roles floats in the air while you work feverishly to prepare the greatest gastronomical feast of all time, until the following year when that meal takes the title. Grandpa, I miss the smell of Old Spice and the scratchiness of your face when you hadn't shaved. I miss accompanying you as you would take Shane, your dog and my afternoon playmate out for a walk. Wish you were here. It's a little early but, Happy Thanksgiving in heaven.