Part 7 – The Baton Passed
Spring came late that year.
The snow receded slowly from the edges of Maple Street, leaving behind muddy yards and pale grass struggling toward green. The oak tree outside the farmhouse trembled with small buds, cautious in the chill of March.
Inside, the waffle iron hissed as faithfully as ever. But it was Anna and Eddie who stood at the counter now, sleeves rolled high, faces serious with concentration.
June Benson sat nearby, bundled in a shawl, her hands folded in her lap. Her breath rasped softly, but her eyes stayed sharp, watchful. She was no longer the one guiding the recipe—she was the audience, the witness.
“Two cups of flour,” Anna said, measuring carefully.
“Not packed,” Eddie reminded, repeating her own lesson. “Spoon it in, then level it.”
June smiled faintly. They had learned. They had carried every word she’d said, every trick of her kitchen.
“You two are old pros now,” she whispered.
“Because you taught us,” Anna said.
“Because Milo made us practice,” Eddie added.
The children grinned, and June laughed—a thin sound, but real.
They lit the candle, as always, and placed the first waffle on Milo’s plate by the stove. Steam curled upward, carrying with it the smell of memory.
“For you, old boy,” Anna said.
Eddie added, “And for Grandpa, too.”
The plate sat untouched, but that wasn’t the point. The act itself filled the room, binding the present to the past.
When the second waffle was ready, the children carried it to June. She broke off a square, chewing slowly, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes.
“Perfect,” she murmured.
The weeks passed, each Sunday carrying the ritual further into the children’s hands.
Caroline watched with quiet pride. She saw her mother fading, yes, but she also saw resilience blooming in Anna and Eddie. They weren’t just learning to cook. They were learning to carry memory, to hold tradition, to weave love into routine.
One afternoon, Caroline found Anna writing in a small notebook.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Our recipe book,” Anna replied. “So we’ll never forget.”
On the first page, in careful handwriting, she had copied the waffle recipe exactly as June had taught it. Below, in a different colored pencil, Eddie had added: First one always for Milo.
Caroline swallowed hard. She kissed the top of Anna’s head. “That’s beautiful, honey.”
Anna looked up, eyes earnest. “We have to keep it, Mom. Forever.”
By April, June grew weaker still. She spent more hours in her chair, her shawl wrapped tight. Yet each Sunday morning, she insisted on rising early, dressing neatly, sitting at the table before the children arrived.
One Sunday, as they bustled through the door, she whispered to herself, “Another Sunday given.”
Anna hugged her tightly. “We’re here, Grandma. We’re ready.”
“Then let’s begin,” June said, her voice steadied by their presence.
That day, as the waffles sizzled, Eddie asked a question that stilled the kitchen.
“Grandma, what if you’re not here one Sunday?”
The silence stretched. The waffle iron hissed. Anna shot her brother a sharp look, but June lifted a trembling hand.
“It’s all right, darling,” she said gently. She met Eddie’s eyes, steady and sure. “If I’m not here, you’ll still make them. You’ll light the candle, place the first one for Milo, and share the rest together. That’s how you’ll carry me, too.”
Eddie’s lip quivered. “But I want you here.”
“I know,” June whispered. “I want to be here, too. But love means preparing each other for when we can’t be.”
The boy climbed into her lap, curling close. Anna leaned against her shoulder. Together, they held the truth without running from it.
Outside, the oak tree stretched into green. The farmhouse creaked with the rhythm of time, as it always had.
But inside, something profound had shifted. The children were no longer students. They were heirs.
On Easter Sunday, the farmhouse filled with more laughter than it had in months. Caroline brought a ham, neighbors dropped off pies, and the kitchen bustled with voices.
But the heart of it remained the same: the waffle iron, the candle, the first plate for Milo.
When June’s turn came to speak, she raised her voice just enough to be heard.
“Family,” she said, “rituals are how we remember who we are. Waffles on Sunday, candles for those we love—it keeps us bound, even across death.”
The room fell quiet, her words sinking deep.
Anna reached across the table, taking her grandmother’s hand. “We’ll keep it, Grandma. We promise.”
Later that evening, after the guests had gone, June sat alone at the table. She touched the locket around her neck, the little drawing inside.
She whispered, “Walter, Milo, soon enough I’ll join you. But not yet. Not while the children still need me to show them how.”
The house hummed gently, as though it understood.
In May, her health faltered again. A coughing fit left her breathless one Sunday morning. Caroline rushed to her side, but June waved her away.
“Bring me to the table,” she insisted.
So Caroline and Anna helped her to her chair. Eddie scurried to fetch the cookbook.
June placed her trembling hand on the page, the ink stains familiar beneath her skin. “One more time,” she whispered. “Together.”
And they did. The children measured, stirred, poured. The iron hissed. The candle flickered.
When the first waffle was ready, Anna carried it to Milo’s plate. She hesitated, then added softly, “And this one’s for Grandma, too. For when she’s not here.”
June’s chest ached with love. Tears slid down her cheeks, but she did not hide them. “That’s how it should be,” she whispered.
The baton had been passed.
That night, as the farmhouse grew quiet, June sat by the stove, gazing at the empty quilt. She thought of Milo, of Walter, of every Sunday strung together across the years.
She realized something then: rituals are not chains to hold us, but threads that weave us into eternity.
She placed a hand over her heart, where the locket lay warm.
“Carry it well, my loves,” she murmured. “Carry it beyond me.”
The clock ticked. The house breathed. And June closed her eyes, ready for whatever Sundays remained.
Part 8 – The First Absence
The lilacs bloomed in May, purple and fragrant, lining the fence of the Benson farmhouse. Their scent drifted into the kitchen each morning when Anna opened the window, a sweet reminder that the seasons were shifting again.
But inside, June Benson’s body could no longer keep pace with the turning world.
Her cough worsened, her frame grew frail, and some mornings she could not rise without Caroline’s help. The farmhouse that had once echoed with her movements now seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
And then, one Sunday morning, the kitchen fell still without her.
Anna and Eddie came through the door carrying their overnight bags, their voices bright, expecting to find their grandmother at the stove.
Instead, Caroline met them at the threshold, finger pressed to her lips.
“Grandma’s resting,” she said quietly. “She had a hard night.”
The children froze. Sundays had never begun without June at the table.
“But—” Eddie started, eyes wide.
Caroline placed a hand on his shoulder. “She asked that you two keep the tradition today. She said you’re ready.”
Anna’s heart thudded. Ready? Ready to begin a Sunday without their grandmother’s watchful eyes? She glanced toward the stove, where the waffle iron waited like an expectant sentinel.
“Come on,” she whispered to Eddie. “We can do this.”
They moved slowly, deliberately. Anna tied on her grandmother’s apron, its fabric soft from decades of use. Eddie fetched the Pyrex bowl, careful not to chip the rim.
Caroline watched quietly from the corner, her presence both comforting and heavy.
“Two cups flour,” Anna said, repeating the words as if invoking a spell. She smoothed the top with the back of a knife, exactly as June had taught.
“One egg,” Eddie said, cracking it against the counter. This time, no yolk spilled onto the wood.
The waffle iron hissed when butter hit its plates. Steam curled upward, carrying the smell of cinnamon into the kitchen.
Anna blinked hard. The scent was so tied to her grandmother’s voice that for a moment she swore she could hear it.
“Not too much batter, darling. Let it breathe.”
She poured carefully, whispering back, “I remember.”
When the first waffle was ready, golden and steaming, Anna carried it to the plate by the stove. She set it down gently.
“For Milo,” she said.
Eddie added softly, “And for Grandma, too. Since she’s not here.”
The candle flickered beside the plate, flame steady.
Only then did they eat. Their bites were slow, solemn. The waffles tasted the same, yet different—sweet with memory, bitter with absence.
Caroline reached across the table, taking their hands. “Your grandma would be proud,” she said.
But Anna felt a crack in her chest. Pride was not enough. She wanted her grandmother’s laughter, her voice, her hands guiding theirs.
The kitchen felt too large without her.
After breakfast, Anna crept into her grandmother’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn, light falling soft across the quilt.
June lay propped on pillows, her breathing shallow, her hands folded atop the locket at her chest.
“Grandma,” Anna whispered. “We did it. We made them. Just like you taught us.”
June’s eyes fluttered open. A faint smile touched her lips. “I knew you would.”
Anna knelt by the bed. “But it wasn’t the same.”
“It isn’t meant to be,” June said, voice thin. “Every ritual changes with time. What matters is that you carried it forward. That’s how love endures.”
Anna pressed her face against her grandmother’s hand, hot tears slipping free.
“Don’t leave us,” she whispered.
June stroked her hair weakly. “When I do, you’ll still find me. In the waffles. In the candlelight. In every Sunday you keep.”
The following week, June gathered her strength to return to the table.
She shuffled slowly, leaning on Caroline’s arm, lowering herself into her chair with a weary sigh. The children brightened instantly, rushing to her side.
“You’re back!” Eddie exclaimed, hugging her tightly.
“For today,” June said with a smile. “One more Sunday.”
They cooked together, laughter filling the kitchen again. The waffles came out slightly uneven, but June declared them perfect.
Yet the truth lay unspoken in every glance, every pause: there would not be many more like this.
One night, near the end of May, June called Caroline into the kitchen.
“I want you to promise me something,” she said, voice steady though her hands trembled.
Caroline nodded, waiting.
“When I’m gone, don’t let the children think the ritual has ended. Make sure they keep it. Even if you must carry it with them.”
Caroline’s eyes filled. “Mom—”
“Promise me,” June pressed. “Every Sunday. As long as they breathe.”
Caroline clasped her mother’s frail hands. “I promise.”
The next Sunday, June stayed in bed again. The children rose early, eager to shoulder the weight. They lit the candle, stirred the batter, poured with care.
The kitchen filled with the familiar scent, and their voices softened into reverence.
When the first waffle was ready, Eddie placed it on the plate by the stove. He whispered, “For Milo. For Grandpa. For Grandma, too.”
The flame flickered as if answering.
Anna felt something settle inside her. The ritual was no longer fragile—it was rooted. It belonged to them now, and to everyone who came before.
She looked at her brother, at their mother watching with wet eyes, and she whispered the truth that steadied her heart:
“We’re ready.”
That evening, Anna slipped into her grandmother’s room again.
June’s eyes opened slowly. “How did it go?”
“Perfect,” Anna whispered. “And we’ll keep it. Forever.”
June’s smile was small but radiant. “Then my work is done.”
She closed her eyes again, drifting back into rest.
Anna sat beside her, clutching her hand, knowing that the first Sunday without her grandmother at the table had already come and gone.
And though grief swelled in her chest, she also felt something stronger: the ritual would endure.
The baton had passed fully.
But as June slept, the farmhouse seemed to sigh, as though it knew a greater absence was drawing near.
And the children, lying awake that night, felt the shadow of it too.
They did not yet know when it would fall.
But they knew the ritual would be their anchor when it did.