Part 9 – The Last Sunday Together
June Benson woke to the sound of birdsong, thin and tentative in the pale light of early June. For a moment, in that drowsy space between sleep and waking, she forgot the heaviness in her chest, the stiffness in her bones. She thought she might rise, put on her apron, and greet the children in the kitchen.
But when she tried to sit, her body refused. Her breath rattled, shallow and uneven. She knew, with a clarity sharper than sorrow, that her time was short.
She whispered into the quiet, “Let me have one more Sunday.”
Caroline found her that morning already awake, locket clasped tightly in her hands.
“Mom,” she said softly, brushing her mother’s hair back from her forehead, “do you want me to call the children in?”
“Yes,” June whispered. “Bring them.”
When Anna and Eddie entered the room, their voices hushed, June smiled faintly. “My darlings,” she said, reaching weakly for their hands. They climbed onto the bed, curling against her sides, the weight of their small bodies both comforting and heartbreaking.
“Grandma,” Anna said, tears bright in her eyes, “do you want to make waffles today?”
June’s lips trembled. “I can’t, love. But you can. That’s how we keep it going.”
The children moved into the kitchen with solemn determination.
Anna tied on the apron, its strings now too long for her narrow waist. Eddie dragged a chair to the counter, climbing up to measure flour. Caroline stood nearby, quiet, letting them work.
The waffle iron hissed. Butter melted, batter sizzled, the air filled with cinnamon and nutmeg.
When the first waffle was ready, Anna placed it carefully on Milo’s plate. She lit the candle, the flame steady, casting warm light into the kitchen.
“For Milo,” she said.
“For Grandpa,” Eddie added. Then, after a pause, his voice small but fierce: “For Grandma, too.”
Caroline covered her mouth, tears spilling.
They carried the second waffle to June’s bedside. She could not eat much, only a bite, but she closed her eyes as the taste filled her mouth.
“Perfect,” she whispered. “The best I’ve ever had.”
Anna’s heart swelled and cracked at once.
Eddie leaned close. “We’ll keep making them. Every Sunday. We promise.”
June’s hand trembled as she touched his cheek. “That’s all I ask.”
The rest of the day unfolded gently, like a quilt being spread for the last time.
They moved her bed to the window, so she could see the oak tree outside. The branches swayed with summer leaves, the same tree under which Milo had rested, the same tree Walter had planted.
“Do you see it?” June whispered to Anna, who sat at her side. “That tree has carried all our Sundays. It will carry yours too.”
Anna nodded, clutching her grandmother’s hand tightly.
Eddie crawled onto the bed, curling against her. “Don’t go, Grandma.”
June stroked his hair. “I must, love. But I’ll never leave you. Not really. Every time you smell waffles, every time you light the candle—you’ll find me there.”
Caroline sat quietly in the corner, tears sliding silently down her face. She could not bring herself to speak.
As afternoon slipped into evening, June’s breathing grew shallower. The children clung to her, whispering stories about Milo, about waffles, about the times she had laughed with batter on her apron.
“Remember,” Anna whispered, “when Milo stole a slipper and you chased him around the kitchen?”
June’s lips curved faintly. “He always won.”
“Remember,” Eddie added, “when you burned a waffle and said it was Grandpa’s fault for distracting you?”
A weak chuckle escaped her. “He did distract me, all my life.”
Their voices wrapped around her like a lullaby.
As the sun sank low, light painted the room gold. June turned her eyes toward the oak tree one last time. She thought she saw movement there—Milo bounding across the grass, Walter standing with a grin, hand raised in greeting.
Her heart swelled, not with fear, but with release.
She whispered, “I’m ready.”
Her hand tightened briefly around the locket, then stilled.
The room fell silent, save for the steady tick of the kitchen clock.
Anna sobbed first, pressing her face into her grandmother’s chest. Eddie wailed, clutching her hand. Caroline rose, gathered them close, and together they wept.
The next morning, the farmhouse felt unbearably empty.
But when Sunday returned a week later, Anna and Eddie rose early. They pulled out the cookbook, lit the candle, and stirred the batter with trembling hands.
They placed the first waffle on Milo’s plate. This time, they added another beside it.
“For Grandma,” Anna said softly.
“For Grandma,” Eddie echoed.
The flame flickered, as if in reply.
They ate quietly, their grief heavy but their hearts full of something else, too: the knowledge that the ritual had become theirs.
Caroline sat at the table, watching her children carry on what her mother had started. She thought of June’s words—rituals are how we remember who we are.
And she understood: Sundays would keep them bound, no matter who was missing from the table.
That evening, as the children played outside, Caroline stood at the kitchen sink. She looked at the waffle iron, the candle stub, the old Pyrex bowl. She felt the weight of her mother’s absence like a stone, but she also felt her presence everywhere.
She whispered, “We’ll carry it, Mom. I promise.”
The oak tree swayed gently in the twilight. The farmhouse breathed, holding memory in its beams and floorboards.
And love, stitched into every Sunday, endured.
Part 10 – The Sundays We Keep
Summer settled heavy over Bloomington, cicadas humming in the trees, the air thick with memory. The Benson farmhouse stood as it always had—white paint peeling, porch sagging—but now it felt like a vessel holding echoes of those no longer there.
Inside, the waffle iron gleamed on the counter. The Pyrex bowl waited, its rim chipped but steady. The candle sat stubby and worn, wick curled black from so many lightings.
And on Sunday morning, the ritual began again.
Anna Louise Benson cracked the first egg. She was eleven now, her hands steadier, her face thinner from grief but stronger in its resolve. Eddie James Benson measured flour with exaggerated care, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.
“Not packed,” he muttered, repeating his grandmother’s words as though she still stood beside him.
Anna poured the batter onto the iron. The sizzle filled the kitchen, and for a moment, they both froze. That sound had always marked the beginning of something sacred.
When the first waffle emerged, golden and steaming, Anna placed it on the plate by the stove. She lit the candle.
“For Milo,” she whispered.
Eddie added softly, “For Grandpa. For Grandma.”
The flame flickered, steady and bright.
Caroline watched from the doorway. She had considered stopping the ritual after her mother’s passing, fearing it might wound more than it healed. But the children had insisted.
“This is how we keep them,” Anna had said.
And Caroline realized they were right. Rituals were not anchors dragging them down; they were bridges leading forward.
She stepped into the kitchen, smoothing Anna’s hair. “Smells just like it did when I was your age.”
Anna looked up, proud. “We’re keeping it, Mom. Forever.”
Caroline swallowed hard. “I know you are.”
That afternoon, they carried their plates outside to the oak tree. The grass was thick and green, the branches full of shade. They spread Milo’s old quilt, now faded and frayed, across the ground.
Eddie lay back, staring at the sky. “Do you think they can see us?”
Anna followed his gaze. “I think they can smell the waffles. Like smoke signals.”
Caroline laughed softly, though tears pricked her eyes. “If anyone can find their way by smell, it’s Milo.”
They sat together beneath the tree, eating waffles, the sunlight dappling their faces. The air felt thick with presence—Walter’s laughter, June’s steady voice, Milo’s thumping tail.
As summer wore on, the ritual widened.
One Sunday, they invited their neighbors, the McKinneys. Another week, they carried extra plates to the shelter, just as June had once agreed they should. The dogs wagged and yipped, tails blurring as they devoured the offerings.
Each act carried the same refrain: the first waffle on Milo’s plate, the candle lit, the names spoken aloud.
The ritual became more than remembrance. It became legacy.
One Sunday in September, Anna tucked the little notebook into the cookbook’s pages. On its cover she had written in neat block letters: The Sundays We Keep.
Inside were not only the recipe and notes, but also stories. Drawings Eddie had made. Memories scribbled in pencil: Milo barking at the mailman, Grandma humming hymns, the candle flame that danced like it was alive.
“We’ll keep writing in it,” Anna explained. “So someday our children will know too.”
Caroline touched the notebook reverently. “Your grandma would be proud.”
Anna nodded firmly. “She already knows.”
October brought cool winds and falling leaves. The oak tree blazed gold, its branches glowing like fire.
On one particular Sunday, Anna and Eddie insisted they eat outside, despite the chill. They lit the candle on the quilt, the flame trembling in the breeze.
“For Milo,” Anna said.
“For Grandpa and Grandma,” Eddie added.
Caroline placed her hand on their shoulders. “For us,” she whispered.
The candle flickered, and in that moment, it seemed as though the past and present sat together at one table, bound by waffles and love.
As winter returned, the ritual grew cozier, the kitchen warm against the cold winds rattling the windows. The smell of batter mixed with pine when they lit the Christmas tree. The children giggled when waffles came out shaped slightly crooked, declaring them “just like Grandma’s.”
Caroline often sat back, letting them lead, marveling at how grief had not broken them but molded them. She realized her mother’s last gift had not been the recipe itself, but the strength to carry it.
Years later, Anna would look back on that time and realize it was the Sundays that saved them. Not the grand gestures, not the holidays, not the rare moments of spectacle—but the weekly act of mixing, pouring, sharing.
It taught her that love lives best in repetition, in showing up again and again, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
Eddie, too, would remember. As a grown man, he would carry the ritual into his own kitchen, setting the first waffle aside each time, lighting a candle for those gone. He would tell his children, “This is how we remember who we are.”
And the ritual would endure.
On the anniversary of June’s passing, Caroline brought the children to the cemetery. They carried a basket, heavy with waffles.
They knelt by the headstone, setting one plate carefully on the grass.
“For Grandma,” Anna said.
“For Milo, too,” Eddie added.
Caroline lit a small candle, shielding the flame with her hand against the wind. They ate quietly, their breath clouding in the cold air.
The taste was the same as always—warm, nutmeg-scented, familiar. But this time, it was sharper, more sacred.
Because they knew: love was not measured in how long someone stayed. It was measured in the Sundays shared, the rituals repeated, the routines that became holy.
When they left, the candle still flickered faintly in the grass. The wind bent it, but it did not go out.
Caroline looked back once, tears filling her eyes. She whispered, “We’ll keep it, Mom. We’ll keep it always.”
And so the farmhouse stood, holding its silence and its echoes. The waffle iron hissed on, the Pyrex bowl endured, the notebook filled with more words.
Milo’s plate stayed by the stove, never put away.
Every Sunday, the Benson family gathered. They cracked eggs, poured batter, laughed through tears. They placed the first waffle on the plate, lit the candle, and spoke the names aloud.
And though the table changed, though chairs emptied and filled again, the ritual remained.
Love remained.
Because love, they had learned, is not measured in grand gestures or rare brilliance.
Love is measured in the Sundays we keep.
The End