In March, Owen suggested that Maya spend a long weekend at my house.
He drove her up on Friday afternoon with a pink suitcase and a backpack full of books.
She ran into my arms.
“Grandma!”
We spent three wonderful days together.
On Friday evening, we made chicken noodle soup from scratch.
Maya rolled out the dough while I prepared the broth.
She cut the noodles into completely different sizes.
Some were thin.
Others were nearly as wide as her fingers.
“They’re supposed to be different,” she informed me seriously. “It’s more interesting that way.”
I laughed.
“Then they’re perfect.”
On Saturday, we watched old musicals beneath a blanket.
Maya had never seen The Sound of Music or Mary Poppins.
She loved both.
That evening, she taught me a card game and defeated me eleven times.
“You’re really bad at this, Grandma.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
She grinned.
