molasses

making oatmeal is a visceral experience for me, full of memories of my grandparents. will i ever stand over the stove stirring my oatmeal without thinking of childhood breakfasts at their house, how i would stand outside their bedroom door yelling for them to wake up, how they wouldn't hear me because they didn't sleep with their hearing aids in, how grandma would get up and offer me the choice of oatmeal or cream of wheat? will i ever not smile to myself, remembering how my grandfather, a building contractor, would call the oatmeal redi-mix?

will i ever wait impatiently as the molasses eases its way down the side of the bottle without hearing my grandfather eternally describe his wife to be "slow as molasses?" and, always, will i think to myself, actually molasses is pretty damn slow?