a little girl.

once upon a time, there was a little girl. her entire world revolved around her family - a big irish family. at the head of that family was her grandmother. nan as she was referred to was the brick, the cornerstone, the foundation. this little girl looked up to her nan as if she were a celebrity walking the red carpet in a dior gown with harry winston jewels. nan told the best stories - whether it was in her living room with the fireplace blazing or on the edge of the sea, all the elements of the world seemed to listen in to her stories; she had the attention of all - even god. her ghost stories kept the little girl awake all night, and her comedies kept her laughing for hours. nan's house always smelled like a fresh bakery. she was constantly piercing pie crusts with forks and molding scones with her wrinkled hands. the little girl and all her cousins would pile into the tiny kitchen in the little white irish cottage and hold out their hands for the best goods. a little piece of heaven went into nan and came out in everything she baked. well, the little girl grew up, and as all things do - nan's life came to an end. her stories are echoing off the east coast of the united states, 3,000 miles away from where they began, on the west coast of ireland. she can be found in the creases in the corners of the little girl's eyes, in her working hands, and in her heart. the bakery is no longer open, but the memory of the smell is something she wakes up to every morning. she knows her nan is telling the same stories and keeping her new audience well fed in the freshest of fields with the ocean roaring out her front window. the little girl, all grown up, can only hope her stories will be as remembered and honored - that little girl, is me.