It was often well into March before the trees turned from brittle looking skeletons with their menacing and bare branches clawing toward the sky into living, budding plants that reminded me of the yearly promise of new life and fresh starts. It was only February and already the town had begun to thaw. “Good morning, Sunshine,” Nana said one Saturday morning when I came down for breakfast. She’d outdone herself with the smorgasbord of baked goods that lined the old pine table positioned in the center of the kitchen. Cinnamon rolls, country-style potatoes, sausage, thick strips of bacon with ribbon-like curls of fat still clinging to their edges. My stomach growled as though letting its appreciation be known. I plucked a piece of bacon from the top of the pile and snapped it between my teeth. My hair was split into two braids which hung down my back and I wore pink flannel pajamas that had cotton-tailed bunny rabbits patterned all over them. Nana caught sight of me and cocked her head.
