Part 5 – The Ritual Remade
The weeks after Milo’s passing fell into a rhythm, though a different one than before.
Every Sunday morning, the kitchen still filled with the hiss of batter and the smell of cinnamon. But the silence at the stove, where Milo’s paws once clicked, pressed heavily on June Benson’s chest. She kept his quilt folded on a chair, his collar hanging by the door. Little reminders that absence could be a presence too.
Anna and Eddie seemed to sense the balance instinctively. They carried his memory into every step of the ritual. When Anna cracked the first egg, she said, “This one’s for Milo.” When Eddie poured the batter, he whispered, “Hope you’re hungry, old boy.”
June did not stop them. She let the words hang like prayers.
One Sunday morning, about three weeks later, Eddie asked the question that had been waiting at the edge of all their hearts.
“Grandma,” he said, licking batter from his finger, “do you think Milo’s in heaven?”
June froze with the wooden spoon in her hand. The waffle iron hissed softly in the silence.
She thought of Walter’s voice in church pews, of sermons promising eternal life, of her own doubts whispered into pillows after his death.
“I do,” she said finally. “If heaven has room for us, it surely has room for a good dog.”
Anna looked relieved, her shoulders loosening. “Then he’s not gone. He’s just waiting.”
“Yes,” June whispered. “Just waiting.”
But when she turned back to the counter, her eyes brimmed. Because she knew waiting could stretch unbearably long.
By early May, spring had ripened into green. The oak tree outside the farmhouse cast wide shade, its leaves full and strong. Anna suggested they eat waffles outside, to be nearer to Milo’s favorite resting place.
So they carried plates onto the quilt, setting themselves in the grass as sunlight filtered through the branches.
“It feels like he’s still here,” Anna murmured, patting the ground.
June closed her eyes, listening to the breeze rustle the leaves. Perhaps the girl was right. Perhaps love had a way of binding souls to the places they cherished.
Caroline, their mother, noticed the change too.
“You seem lighter,” she told June one afternoon as she picked up the children.
June smiled faintly. “The children keep him alive every Sunday. I suppose that keeps me alive too.”
Caroline studied her mother with softened eyes. “I’m glad. I worried you’d stop altogether. That you’d let grief steal the ritual.”
June shook her head. “No. Waffles are our way of remembering. To give them up would be to let him vanish completely.”
Still, not every Sunday was easy.
There were mornings when the smell of batter was too sharp a reminder, when the absence at her feet made June’s throat ache. One Sunday in June, she nearly told the children she couldn’t do it anymore.
But then Eddie presented her with a drawing—Milo, chasing waffles that floated like balloons in the sky.
“It’s what he does up there,” Eddie said earnestly. “That’s why we should keep making them. So he has more balloons to chase.”
June hugged him, the tears falling freely now. The children were teaching her what she had nearly forgotten: rituals were not chains but bridges. They carried you across loss.
By July, they had added new touches to the tradition.
Anna insisted they light a candle before serving, the flame a symbol of Milo’s spirit. Eddie began sprinkling a pinch of nutmeg into the batter, honoring Walter’s old note in the cookbook.
Each addition wove past and present together. Each kept the ritual alive, remade yet faithful.
The farmhouse kitchen grew again into a place of laughter and comfort. The clock ticked, the waffle iron hissed, and though the quilt by the stove remained folded, love seemed to stretch outward and fill the gaps.
One Sunday evening, long after the children had gone home, June sat at the kitchen table alone. The candle they’d lit earlier had burned low, its wick curled black
She pulled the cookbook toward her, resting her hand on the worn page.
“Walter,” she whispered, “we’ve kept your promise. Waffles keep us close. Even without you. Even without him.”
She felt the emptiness, yes, but she also felt the warmth of what remained. It was then she understood: grief doesn’t end, but it softens when wrapped in love.
She blew out the candle, the smoke curling like a final sigh.
As summer stretched on, the ritual began to draw others in.
Caroline stayed for breakfast one Sunday, tasting the waffles that had shaped her childhood. “I’d forgotten how good these are,” she admitted, smiling through damp eyes.
Another time, Anna invited her best friend, who whispered shyly, “I wish we had a tradition like this.”
The circle widened, the table filling, yet the empty plate set aside for Milo remained at the center.
Every guest seemed to understand without words. They paused when Anna said, “This first one’s for Milo.” They smiled softly when Eddie held up his drawing of balloon-waffles.
The ritual belonged to all who entered, but it belonged especially to those who carried Milo in their hearts.
One late-August morning, Anna asked a question that startled June.
“Grandma,” she said, “what if we keep making waffles forever? Even when we’re grown up? Even when you’re gone?”
June’s breath caught. The thought of leaving them one day was not new, but hearing it from Anna’s lips made it cut sharper.
“Yes,” she said after a pause. “Promise me you’ll keep it. Promise me you’ll pass it on.”
“We will,” Anna said firmly. Eddie nodded, his mouth full of crumbs.
June reached across the table, taking both their hands. “Then Milo will never really leave us. Neither will I.”
The words steadied her.
By autumn, the Sundays had taken on a new texture.
The children returned to school, their schedules busier, yet they never missed a morning at the farmhouse. Even football practice and homework bowed to waffles.
One chilly October morning, June watched them shuffle in with flushed cheeks, shaking off the cold. She felt the weight of the season shift—the way leaves fell and routines hardened into comfort.
“Grandma,” Eddie said suddenly, “can we make waffles for other dogs too? Ones at the shelter?”
Anna’s eyes lit up. “That’s a good idea! We could give them their own special Sundays.”
June blinked, surprised. The idea warmed her. To share Milo’s legacy outward, to let other dogs taste the love he had known—it felt like the next right step.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, we can.”
That afternoon, they packaged waffles carefully, the kitchen buzzing with purpose. They delivered them to the local shelter, where tails wagged furiously at the smell.
The children beamed, and June felt her chest swell with pride.
Milo’s ritual had not only endured. It had grown.
And as she watched the dogs devour the treats, she realized: love multiplies when shared. It doesn’t fade.
That night, June sat once more at the table, Milo’s collar resting beside the cookbook. She whispered into the still air, “Old boy, your Sundays live on. We’ll carry them as long as we breathe.”
She closed the book gently, her heart lighter than it had been in months.
The ritual was no longer just for Milo. It was for them all.
But deep inside, she knew another truth waited ahead, patient and unspoken: rituals could keep love alive, but they could not stop time.
And someday, the children would have to carry the Sundays without her.
Part 6 – Winter’s Edge
The first frost came early that year.
By November, the fields around Bloomington stood stiff and silver, the oak tree in the Benson yard stripped bare. Its branches reached toward the sky like prayerful arms, empty of the leaves that had shaded Milo’s quilt only months before.
Inside the farmhouse, warmth still lingered. The waffle iron hissed faithfully every Sunday, steam curling into the kitchen air. But the ritual now carried an undercurrent of fragility.
Because June Benson’s hands had begun to tremble.
It started subtly. A dropped spoon. Batter splattered across the counter. She brushed it off, blaming age, distraction. But Anna noticed.
“Grandma, are you cold?” she asked one morning, watching June fumble with the Pyrex bowl.
“No, sweetheart,” June said, forcing a smile. “Just clumsy today.”
Yet later, alone at the sink, she pressed her hands against the counter and admitted to herself what she would not admit aloud: her body was tiring, just as Milo’s once had.
The children were resilient, carrying more of the ritual without complaint.
Anna measured flour carefully, smoothing the top with the back of a knife, just as June had taught her. Eddie, always eager, learned to grease the iron and pour the batter without spilling. Their movements grew confident, sure.
“You two don’t even need me anymore,” June teased one morning, though her voice trembled at the truth inside the joke.
“We always need you,” Anna said firmly.
“Forever,” Eddie added, batter smudged on his cheek.
The words wrapped around June like a blanket. Still, she felt the creeping shadow of time.
As winter deepened, Caroline began to stay longer after dropping the children off. She washed dishes, swept floors, scolded June gently when she caught her straining to lift firewood.
“Mom, you can’t do everything yourself anymore,” she said one cold December morning.
“I can manage,” June replied, though she knew the word was shrinking beneath her breath.
Caroline touched the collar still hanging by the door. “You’re trying to carry too much alone. Let us help.”
June nodded reluctantly. But when the children weren’t looking, she whispered to the collar, “I promised I’d take care of them, old boy. How do I let them take care of me?”
Christmas approached, filling the farmhouse with smells of pine and cinnamon. The children insisted on decorating Milo’s plate with holly sprigs. They lit the candle brighter than ever.
“This one’s for him,” Anna said solemnly, placing the first waffle on the plate.
Eddie clapped. “And this one’s for Grandma!”
June laughed softly, though tears filled her eyes. For the first time, she accepted their offering. The waffle was warm, nutmeg-scented, filled with memory and hope.
When she bit into it, she realized something: she had been so focused on carrying everyone else’s grief that she had forgotten her own need for care.
January came with bitter winds. The farmhouse windows rattled at night. June felt the cold deep in her bones, a stiffness that made rising from bed a trial.
One Sunday morning, she stayed in her chair as the children bustled around the kitchen.
“Grandma, should we start without you?” Anna asked, hesitant.
“Go ahead,” June said, her voice thin. “You know what to do.”
And they did. They cracked eggs, stirred batter, poured with steady hands. The kitchen filled with life, though June sat apart. She watched them, pride and sorrow mingling in her chest.
When the first waffle emerged golden, Anna set it gently on Milo’s plate. Eddie carried the second to June’s lap.
“For you,” he said softly.
Her hands shook as she took it. She bit into the square, tasting more than cinnamon and flour. She tasted devotion, legacy, love stretched across generations.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
Later that afternoon, when the children were outside playing in the snow, Caroline sat beside her mother
“Mom,” she said quietly, “we need to think about the future. About when you can’t live here alone anymore.”
June bristled. “This is my home.”
“I know,” Caroline said gently. “But you’re getting weaker. The children see it. I see it. We can’t ignore it forever.”
June stared at the oak tree, its bare branches etched against the winter sky. “When Walter died, I thought I couldn’t go on. Then Milo kept me moving. Then the children did. I don’t know who I’ll be if I leave this house.”
Caroline placed a hand over hers. “You’ll still be their grandma. You’ll still be you.”
But June felt the house listening, felt its beams and floorboards ache. It had carried so many Sundays. Could she abandon it now?
The next Sunday, snow piled high against the porch steps. The children arrived bundled in scarves and mittens, cheeks glowing. They shook snow onto the mat, laughing.
“Grandma!” Eddie shouted. “We brought something special.”
He pulled from his pocket a tiny locket on a chain. Inside was a picture Anna had drawn—Milo under the oak tree, waffles floating in the sky.
“We thought,” Anna explained, “you could keep him with you all the time.”
June’s heart cracked open. She clasped the locket, tears streaming freely. “Oh, my loves. Thank you.”
She fastened it around her neck, the weight small but immense. It felt like a key to memory, a promise that love was portable.
February arrived, and with it, illness.
A cold crept into June’s chest, rattling her breath. The doctor prescribed rest, warmth, patience. But rest was foreign to June. She had lived a life of rising early, of working through aches.
Now she lay beneath quilts while the children bustled in the kitchen. She listened to their voices, high and sure. She smelled the waffles drifting through the house.
She realized, with a pang sharp as sorrow: they didn’t need her hands anymore. Only her presence.
When Anna carried a plate to her bedside, June took it with trembling fingers.
“Did we do it right?” Anna asked.
“Perfect,” June whispered. And she meant it.
That night, she dreamed of Milo. He bounded across a field, strong and young again. Walter stood at the oak tree, laughing. The dream felt so vivid that she woke with tears on her cheeks and the echo of Walter’s whistle in her ears.
She pressed the locket against her heart. “Not yet,” she whispered. “But soon.”
By March, her strength flickered like a candle in draft. The children noticed. Their laughter grew quieter, their eyes watchful.
“Grandma,” Eddie said one Sunday, “are you going to leave us like Milo did?”
June’s breath caught. The question, innocent and brutal, stripped her defenses. She pulled him close, Anna too.
“Yes,” she said softly. “One day. But not before I’ve given you everything I can. And even then, I’ll be with you—every Sunday, every waffle. Just like Milo.”
They clung to her, the three of them woven together by grief and love.
And June realized the ritual was preparing them, just as it had prepared her.
That evening, as she sat alone by the stove, she whispered into the silence, “Love is measured not in how long we stay, but in the rituals we leave behind.”
The waffle iron gleamed in the dim light. The cookbook waited on the counter. The locket lay warm against her skin.
June closed her eyes, weary but at peace.
The Sundays would go on.
Even when she could not.