My homemade Christmas

He did it again. My husband gave me another precious piece of himself, this time in a manila folder.
My grandmother died about a dozen years ago. Since then, I don't see my extended family much anymore. Used to be you could find them gathered around her kitchen table on Sunday afternoons. Now we see each other at the funeral home when someone dies.
I had a faded picture of my grandmother's house. I treasured that house as the site of good childhood memories. It felt like an icon, not just an old, drafty 5-room house with a fireplace and warped front porch.
The picture was taken right after my grandmother died, when it still felt like her house. Taken with a film camera.
My husband, who doesn't think much of himself as an artist but knows that I love his drawings, drew me a picture of my grandmother's house. He faithfully reproduced the porch that served as home base for a thousand games of hide-and-seek with my cousins.
I picked out a frame and mats, and we hung it up last night. Now every time I walk through the living room I get a flash of crispy fried chicken, talking and laughter, climbing the peach tree in the pasture and catching fireflies as my parents, aunts and uncles talked on the porch. And I get a vision of my grandmother, hair in a bun and apron protecting her dress, moving endlessly from stove to table and back again.