The kitchen smelled of butter and cinnamon, but beneath the laughter of children was a silence only the grandmother felt. As she knelt beside her aging dog, the first waffle of Sunday carried both love and a quiet farewell.
Part 1 – The First Waffle
The kitchen of June Benson’s farmhouse in Bloomington, Indiana, 1964, smelled of cinnamon, butter, and the faint metallic tang of the old waffle iron. The curtains—yellow gingham, washed thin by years of sun—fluttered in the spring breeze. June’s hands, stiff now with age, measured flour into the green Pyrex bowl she had owned since her wedding day.
Beside her, Anna Louise Benson, her ten-year-old granddaughter, cracked an egg too hard against the counter. The shell splintered, yolk dripping onto the wood. She looked up, wide-eyed.
“Sorry, Grandma.”
June smiled faintly, taking the mess in stride. “That’s all right, honey. Batter’s not fussy when it’s made with love.”
At the table, Eddie James Benson, only seven, swung his legs and hummed tunelessly, waiting for the first golden squares to be placed before him. He wasn’t patient by nature, but this was Sunday. And Sundays meant waffles.
At June’s feet sat Milo, the old spaniel mix with mottled fur the color of burnt toast and cream. His cloudy left eye blinked slowly, while the right held an amber glow, watchful and steady. His breath came with a faint wheeze these days, but his tail tapped the floor in rhythm with Eddie’s humming.
Milo had been with the family since June’s husband, Walter Benson, was still alive. Walter had brought the pup home one summer night in ’53, tucked into his jacket, declaring him “a dog meant for children’s hands and kitchen floors.” And he was right. Milo had endured spilled milk, tugged ears, firecracker summers, and long winters by the stove.
But more than anything, Milo had endured waffles.
Not for himself at first. It had begun as a Sunday ritual—Walter’s idea, really. After church, June would pull out her 1952 Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, its pages now stained and soft as linen. Waffles, he’d said, make a family stay close. And they had.
When Milo was diagnosed with diabetes a few years back, June refused to let the ritual fade. She tinkered and fussed, adapting the recipe with oats and mashed bananas, cutting sugar, adding just enough sweetness from applesauce to keep him wagging. Every Sunday, Milo received his special plate, warm and fragrant. The children knew: waffles weren’t ready until Milo’s had cooled.
This morning, however, June’s heart felt heavy.
She watched the dog lower himself onto the linoleum with visible effort. His breath rattled. His paws twitched as though the act of simply lying down required negotiation with gravity. A pang caught in her chest.
“Grandma?” Anna’s voice pulled her back. “Should I stir now?”
“Yes, stir. Gently.” June wiped her hands on her apron and knelt by the dog. Her knees ached, but she ignored them. She stroked Milo’s muzzle, feeling the warmth of his breath against her palm. “You hold on, old boy,” she whispered.
The waffle iron hissed as butter melted across its plates. Eddie clapped, impatient. “I get the first one!”
“Not before Milo,” Anna corrected, a trace of pride in her voice. “That’s the rule.”
Milo’s ears flicked. He knew the words. He had always known.
The first waffle came out lopsided, steam curling into the air. June cut it carefully into squares, set aside a portion, and mashed it into a shallow dish for Milo. He lifted his head slowly, tongue flicking at the scent.
For a moment, June saw him as he once was: bounding through the backyard, fur flying, Walter tossing him table scraps against her protests. She blinked hard. Memory was cruel that way—always reminding you of what would never return.
The children crowded close as Milo ate. They giggled when he pressed his nose into the dish, leaving a smear on his whiskers. June tried to laugh with them, but the sound caught in her throat.
The kitchen filled with the comfort of routine—batter hissing, forks clinking, voices overlapping—but beneath it all was a silence June could not ignore. She felt it in the way Milo paused between bites, resting his chin against the rim of the dish. She felt it in the way his eyes, once full of boundless mischief, now lingered on her face as though searching for permission.
Outside, church bells rang faintly across town. A reminder of faith, of time passing, of Sundays strung together like beads on a rosary.
Anna tugged June’s apron. “Grandma? Is Milo okay?”
June looked down at the dog, then at her granddaughter’s earnest eyes. For a moment, she almost lied. But she couldn’t. Not with Walter’s old Pyrex bowl in her hands, not with the smell of waffles filling the air, not with the children watching.
“No,” June said softly. “He’s not.”
And the waffle iron hissed again, sharp as a breath held too long.
Part 2 – The Smell of Batter
The words hung in the kitchen like smoke.
Anna froze, wooden spoon dripping batter onto the floor. Eddie stopped swinging his legs. Only the waffle iron kept hissing, as though it didn’t care that June Benson had just spoken the truth every child dreads.
“No?” Anna whispered again.
June straightened slowly, her knees crackling. “He’s tired, honey. That’s all.”
But the lie was too thin. Milo’s body told the rest. His ribs shifted with each breath, his fur dulled, his old paws tucked close as though conserving what strength remained.
The children looked from dog to grandmother, searching for a loophole.
“Can’t we take him back to the doctor?” Eddie blurted. “They give him those shots, right? Like you do?”
June placed the Pyrex bowl firmly on the counter. She had given the shots faithfully, twice a day, the tiny syringes lined up like soldiers in their drawer. She had measured his food, walked him slow around the block. But medicine cannot stop a calendar.
“We’ve done all we can,” she said, voice low. “Sometimes… love means knowing when to let go.”
The words felt like ashes on her tongue.
Anna knelt beside the dog. Milo’s tail tapped weakly, once, against the floor. She stroked his ear, whispering as though secrets might keep him alive.
“I don’t want to let go,” she said.
Neither did June.
The kitchen filled with the second waffle’s fragrance. Eddie pushed his plate forward, waiting for Grandma to portion it like always, but his appetite had faltered. He chewed his lip instead.
“Grandma,” he asked suddenly, “what happens if Milo doesn’t wake up one morning? Will we still make waffles?”
The question was a dagger.
June leaned heavily against the counter, gripping the edge. The recipe was more than food—it was Walter’s laugh, the children’s sticky fingers, the church bells in the distance. It was memory folded into batter. But would it matter without Milo?
“We’ll see,” she answered, unable to promise what her heart doubted.
After breakfast, Anna insisted on bringing Milo outside. The April sun lay across the yard like a pale blanket, warming patches of grass still damp with dew. Milo sniffed once at the lilacs, then lay down heavily beneath the oak tree Walter had planted the year their daughter was born.
Eddie sat cross-legged beside him, tracing circles in the dirt with a stick.
“Maybe he’s just tired ‘cause he’s old,” he said.
Anna shook her head. “Grandma knows things. She always knows.” Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip.
June watched from the porch, arms crossed over her apron. Her heart thudded with the dull ache of inevitability. She thought of Walter, gone now six years. The way he used to scratch Milo’s chest, chuckling when the dog groaned with pleasure. Take care of him, Junie, he had said, in the hospital, days before the end.
She had. She still was.
But she couldn’t hold back time.
That evening, after the children had been collected by their mother, June sat alone at the kitchen table. The waffle iron cooled silently on the counter. The house creaked with the sounds of settling wood, an old structure sighing at day’s end.
Milo lay at her feet. His breathing was shallow, his body curved in a crescent. She reached down, stroking his fur, noticing how much of the reddish-brown had gone gray.
“You’ve given us more than we deserved,” she whispered. “More patience, more forgiveness, more mornings filled with hope.”
She pulled the 1952 cookbook toward her. Its pages smelled of flour and age. She traced the waffle recipe with a fingertip, pausing at Walter’s handwriting in the margin—add nutmeg, just a pinch. Her throat tightened.
It struck her then: Milo’s Sundays were numbered. The children deserved one last morning of joy, not sorrow.
Tomorrow, she decided, would be for Milo. The very best waffle day of all.
The next Sunday arrived with clear skies.
June rose early, pulling on her faded robe, tying her hair back in a loose knot. The children weren’t due until nine, but she wanted to be ready. She measured carefully, humming softly, each step deliberate, reverent.
The waffle iron gleamed from its polish. The old Pyrex bowl waited on the counter, chipped at the rim but steady. And on the table sat a single white plate, reserved for Milo.
When Anna and Eddie arrived, they sensed the change. The kitchen felt heavier, though the windows let in light.
“Why’s it so quiet?” Eddie asked.
“Because today is special,” June said. “We’re making waffles just for Milo first. Every square perfect.”
The children leaned close as batter poured, as steam curled into the air. Milo, roused by the familiar scent, dragged himself to the table. His legs trembled but held.
Anna’s eyes widened. “He knows it’s for him.”
Of course he did. Dogs always know.
They ate together—Milo with slow, deliberate bites, the children with watchful silence. Every chew felt sacred, a prayer in motion.
When Milo finished, he rested his chin on June’s knee. His eyes, cloudy with age, met hers with a depth that words could not carry.
The kitchen clock ticked. Sunlight shifted. And June understood.
“Children,” she said softly, “we may be nearing his last Sunday.”
Anna gasped. Eddie blinked rapidly, trying to be brave.
“But he’s still here today,” June added quickly. “So we’ll give him the best Sunday he’s ever had. Waffles, stories, the backyard oak. Everything he loves.”
The children nodded, tears trembling but unshed. They had inherited her stubbornness.
By afternoon, they spread an old quilt beneath the oak tree. The children read picture books aloud, voices uneven, while Milo lay with his head on Anna’s lap. Eddie shared secrets—plans for catching fireflies, dreams of learning baseball.
June sat beside them, the sunlight warming her shoulders. She thought of Walter again, of the way he used to whistle hymns while raking leaves. She felt him near, as if Milo’s fading heartbeat bridged the distance between the living and the gone.
When dusk came, they carried Milo inside. He was lighter than she remembered, his frame fragile beneath her arms. She settled him on his blanket by the stove.
The children lingered by the door, reluctant to leave.
“Tomorrow’s school,” June reminded gently. “But you’ll be back next Sunday.”
Anna clutched Milo’s paw. “Promise he’ll wait.”
June swallowed hard. “We’ll hope together.”
That night, the farmhouse was still. June sat by the stove, Milo’s breaths shallow beside her. She whispered every story she could recall—the day Walter brought him home, the time he chased fireflies with the children, the winters when his body warmed her feet.
Her voice cracked. “You’ve carried our love, old boy. Now let us carry you.”
Milo sighed, a sound between weariness and peace. His tail flicked once against the blanket.
And June knew: the next Sunday might be the last.
Part 3 – The Long Week
The days that followed moved with the strange slowness of waiting rooms and whispered prayers.
June Benson rose each morning to the sound of the kitchen clock and the soft rasp of Milo’s breathing by the stove. She measured his insulin, hands steady from years of habit, but her heart trembled each time the needle pressed into his scruff. Would today be the day it no longer mattered?
Outside, Bloomington stirred with the ordinary business of spring—lawns being mowed, mail trucks rattling down Maple Street, children racing their bikes down cracked sidewalks. But inside June’s farmhouse, time circled a single point: the rise and fall of Milo’s chest.
On Tuesday evening, the children begged their mother to visit again.
“Grandma needs us,” Anna insisted, clutching her schoolbook bag.
Her mother, Caroline Whitaker, sighed but agreed. She had grown up in this same house, after all. She knew how the walls seemed to close around grief.
When they arrived, Milo struggled to lift his head. Anna knelt beside him, whispering, “We’re here, old boy.” Eddie crawled under the table, resting his cheek against Milo’s side as if listening to a drum.
June watched, torn between sorrow and gratitude. Love had rooted itself so deeply in these children that it scared her. She remembered being their age, losing her own childhood dog, and swearing she would never let herself love another animal that way again. But Walter had placed Milo in her arms, and resistance had melted like sugar in tea.
By Wednesday, Milo no longer walked to the oak tree. His legs folded under him, stubborn against command. June laid quilts by the stove, surrounding him with softness. She brewed chamomile tea, not for him but for herself, sipping in silence as she stroked his fur.
That afternoon, Anna slipped her hand into June’s. “Grandma, do dogs know when it’s time?”
June thought of Walter’s last days, how he had squeezed her fingers weakly and whispered, I’m not afraid, Junie. Don’t be afraid for me. She thought of Milo’s eyes, how they lingered on her face with a question she couldn’t answer.
“I think they do,” she said finally.
“Then he’s not scared?”
“No, honey. Dogs aren’t scared of leaving. They just don’t want to leave us behind.”
Anna nodded, but tears slid silently down her cheeks.
Thursday brought rain. The children stomped puddles on their way in, cheeks flushed pink from the chill. Milo lay unmoved, though his ears twitched at the sound of their laughter.
Eddie crouched low. “Do you think he dreams?”
June hesitated. “What do you think he dreams of?”
“Chasing rabbits,” Eddie said quickly. “Or waffles. Maybe both.”
Anna shook her head. “He dreams about Grandpa. I think they’ll find each other.”
The kitchen went quiet. Even the clock seemed to pause. June closed her eyes briefly, letting the thought seep in. Walter waiting under some endless oak tree, Milo bounding toward him whole again. The image pierced her, equal parts pain and peace.
Friday morning, Milo refused his food. The dish sat untouched, applesauce cooling on its rim.
June’s stomach tightened. She knelt beside him, coaxing, but his tongue only flicked weakly before retreating. His breath came shallow. His gaze drifted not to her but beyond her, to some place unseen.
The children arrived after school, books forgotten in the corner. They understood without words. Anna curled beside him on the quilt, reading softly from her storybook. Eddie drew pictures of waffles on scraps of paper, laying them gently near Milo’s paws.
“He’ll see them in his dreams,” Eddie said.
June swallowed, unable to speak.
By Saturday evening, the house carried the thick stillness of expectancy. The waffle iron gleamed on the counter, cleaned and ready. The Pyrex bowl waited, though June wondered if Milo would taste another bite.
She sat at the table long after the children went home. The rain had cleared, leaving the windows streaked with silver. Milo stirred only to sigh, his breath rattling. She leaned down, resting her forehead against his side.
“You’ve carried us through a decade of Sundays,” she whispered. “If tomorrow is the last, then let it be enough.”
Sunday dawned pale and quiet.
The children burst through the door, their faces bright but anxious. Anna carried fresh strawberries, Eddie clutched a jar of applesauce. “For Milo,” they said together, as though gifts could bargain with time.
June managed a smile. “Let’s make this one count.”
They stirred batter with solemn care, measuring as though the ritual itself had power. The waffle iron hissed, filling the kitchen with sweetness. Milo’s nose twitched faintly at the smell.
Anna carried the first piece to him, torn soft and small. She held it near his mouth. For a long moment, he did nothing. Then, slowly, his tongue flicked. He chewed once, twice, and stopped. His eyes drifted to hers, full of something she would never forget—gratitude, surrender, and love, all woven into one look.
“Good boy,” she whispered, tears falling.
They ate the rest quietly, each bite tasting of memory more than flavor. June told stories of Walter’s Sunday jokes, of the first time Milo stole a waffle right from the plate. The children laughed through their tears, clutching the past as though it could shield the future.
Afterward, they carried Milo’s quilt to the porch. The spring air smelled of lilacs and damp soil. Milo lay in the sun, head against June’s lap. She stroked his ears, humming the hymn Walter used to whistle.
The children leaned close. Eddie whispered, “Stay with us, Milo.”
But the dog’s breathing had grown slow, like waves pulling back from the shore.
The clock struck noon. Church bells rang across town. Milo’s chest rose, fell, and paused.
June bent low. “It’s all right, old boy. Go on.”
The children clutched each other, eyes wide. Milo’s tail flicked once, as if in farewell. His breath slipped out like a sigh carried by the wind.
Silence followed—heavy, absolute, holy.
Anna sobbed first, burying her face against June’s arm. Eddie cried soundlessly, his small shoulders shaking. June held them both, though her own chest cracked with grief.
She whispered into the still air, “Love is measured in the Sundays we share, not in how long they last.”
The oak tree swayed gently. Somewhere, a waffle iron cooled in silence.
And Milo was gone.
Part 4 – An Empty Plate
The house did not sound the same without him.
Even the creak of the floorboards seemed sharper, as if the old farmhouse knew what it had lost. The Sunday afternoon stretched long and strange, its silence broken only by the clock’s tick and the children’s muffled sniffles.
Milo’s quilt still lay on the porch. The sun warmed it, though the dog was no longer there to soak it in.
Anna Louise Benson wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “It doesn’t feel real,” she whispered.
Eddie James Benson sat cross-legged beside the quilt, tracing the stitched patterns with his finger. “What do we do now, Grandma?”
June Benson’s throat tightened. She had spent the last hour rocking the children gently, letting their grief spill over her lap like rain. Now, the question lingered heavy in the air: what next?
She looked toward the kitchen window, where the waffle iron cooled quietly. Its steel mouth, once hissing with life, now seemed as solemn as a closed casket.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, voice raw.
That night, Caroline returned to collect the children. She found them curled together on the porch steps, clutching Milo’s collar between them like a relic.
“Mom,” Caroline whispered, meeting June’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
June forced a nod. But when she reached for the collar, her fingers shook. She let the children keep it for the night. Some burdens must be shared.
After they left, June wandered back into the kitchen. She placed the collar on the table, beside the old 1952 cookbook. The sight of those two objects together undid her. One symbol of memory, the other of ritual. Both now aching with absence.
She lowered herself into a chair, covering her face with her hands. For the first time since Walter’s death, the farmhouse felt unbearably empty.
Monday morning arrived with sharp clarity, as though grief had polished the world cruelly clean. June found herself moving through the motions: feeding the hens, sweeping the porch, folding laundry. Each task kept her from looking at the quilt or the empty space by the stove.
Yet, as she wiped the counters, her gaze kept drifting to the waffle iron.
Should she put it away? Hide it in the cupboard with the Christmas dishes? Or should it stay, sentinel to a tradition now ended?
She touched the handle lightly. It was still cool, but she felt the phantom warmth of a hundred Sundays lingering.
The children returned after school, carrying drawings. Anna’s showed Milo chasing butterflies. Eddie’s showed a giant waffle, bigger than the sun, with Milo smiling inside it.
“Grandma,” Anna said, placing her picture on the fridge, “should we make waffles next Sunday? For us?”
The question cut through June like a blade. The ritual had always been for Milo, the excuse that bound them together. Without him, would it turn hollow?
“I don’t know yet,” June said softly.
Eddie frowned. “But Milo would want us to.”
Would he? June wondered. Or was that just the child’s way of refusing the end?
She kissed their foreheads, unable to answer.
On Wednesday, June walked to the town square. Bloomington bustled with spring chores—shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks, mothers pushing strollers, boys tossing baseballs across lawns. She felt ghostlike among them, moving in a fog of absence.
She stopped at the bookstore, where the owner, Harold McKinney, had known Walter. He pressed her hand, eyes full of sympathy.
“Hardest thing in the world, losing a good dog,” he said. “They take pieces of us with them.”
June nodded. “And leave pieces of themselves behind.”
Harold smiled faintly. “That’s the part we must learn to carry.”
The weekend crept near. Saturday night, June sat at the kitchen table with the cookbook open before her. She traced the waffle recipe with one finger. The ink smudges of Walter’s notes felt alive beneath her touch.
She could hear the children upstairs, whispering to each other as they settled into bed. Caroline had asked if they might spend the night, to ease June’s loneliness. Their presence warmed the farmhouse, yet it also sharpened the ache of absence.
June stared at the empty dog bed by the stove.
Could she face another Sunday morning without his paws on the floor, without his eyes waiting?
Her hands shook as she closed the book.
Sunday dawned with a quiet that pressed against her chest.
Anna and Eddie bounded down the stairs, hair mussed from sleep, eyes bright despite the sadness that lingered in their expressions.
“Grandma,” Eddie asked, “are we making waffles?”
June hesitated. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. The waffle iron gleamed on the counter, ready but accusatory. The cookbook waited.
Anna stepped forward. “We don’t have to make them for Milo this time. We can make them for us. To remember him.”
The words pierced June’s heart.
She looked at the children—their faces full of trust, their small hands ready to stir and pour. She thought of Milo, how he had sat so patiently every Sunday, waiting his turn. She thought of Walter, declaring waffles kept a family close.
Her voice wavered. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
The children clapped softly, as though afraid to break the moment. Anna fetched the Pyrex bowl. Eddie plugged in the iron.
As June measured flour, her hands steadied. She felt Walter’s presence at her shoulder, Milo’s spirit curled beneath the table. The house, though still aching, breathed again.
When the first waffle hissed, Anna whispered, “This one’s for Milo.”
They placed it on his old plate, setting it gently at the foot of the stove. Steam curled into the air, carrying with it the scent of memory.
Only then did they eat, laughing through tears, each bite both comfort and sorrow.
After breakfast, the children carried Milo’s quilt to the porch. They sat upon it, sharing stories. Eddie recalled the time Milo had barked at the mailman until he dropped a whole stack of letters. Anna remembered when he stole a slipper and refused to give it back for days.
Their laughter rang clear, weaving grief with joy.
June listened, heart swelling. She realized then that the ritual had never been about waffles alone. It had been about gathering, remembering, loving. Milo had simply been the anchor.
Now it was their turn to hold the chain.
That night, after the children were tucked into bed, June returned to the kitchen. The empty plate still sat by the stove, crumbs of the first waffle scattered across it. She carried it to the sink, washed it carefully, and placed it back in the cupboard.
But she did not put away the waffle iron.
It belonged on the counter.
It belonged to Sundays.
Even without Milo, the ritual would live.
Yet as she turned off the light, her heart whispered a painful truth: every waffle from now on would taste of both presence and absence. Sweet and bitter, inseparable.
And she wondered, with a pang sharp as grief itself, whether love was always meant to taste that way.