There were always harvestmen on the bricks.
When I was a child, a younger one than I am now, I passed the summer days at my home away from home. While my nana, my guardian, was at work those days, I went to stay with my Grammy. Her house was always special, almost as special as she herself. She was a woman from a different time, long ago when dust still gripped Oklahoma and children walked uphill both ways to get to and from school each day. There was a certain smell in her house, one that I’ve gone too long without smelling to describe in understandable terms. It smelled like comfort. The air in that house was different from anywhere else, full of floating cat fur and the memories of the four children that were raised there long before my existence was even thought of. It was a place away from all other places, warm and welcoming and full of orange juice and toast. Full of love.