I started to peel the first one, intending to add it to the oatmeal I made for the flock this morning but I stopped.  Left behind by the kids, bananas weren’t on my radar as something I wanted until the telltale brown spots reminded me of Mom’s banana bread. 

I used to bake.  Often.  Bake in my days of having a child at home.  Back when calories didn’t seem to matter (when was that again?) But baking went by the wayside years ago, an indulgence I rarely involve myself or my ingredients in anymore.  And yet…

These two bananas suggested bread.  Mom’s bread.  The kind of sweet treat that transforms an otherwise rotten fruit into a memory-soaked treat.  The ingredients are simple and old-school.  Everything mom had on hand daily -things that sit in my cupboards for months on end with little to no use, but which today had their moment of glory- flour, butter, sugar, eggs.  A dash, and a pinch.  I climbed on a stool to reach the bread pan, dusting it off before filling it with batter.  

Within the hour, the house smelled like home, like Mom and like Grandma.  It smelled like childhood.  I barely gave it time to cool before cutting two thick slices.  I slathered on some butter, an addition I never did before, but a flavor James could never get enough of.  I sat in the oversized chair and let the memory dissolve on my tongue.  

Thank you, Mom, for bringing me a moment of peace.  Thank you for letting me miss you without anguish.  Thank you for letting my childhood be something that comforts me now, in moments of my deepest sorrow.  

Thank you.  For the calming memory that two overripe bananas can bring.