One afternoon, the mats she had cleaned and left out to dry, were thrown carelessly into the garden puddle. Magnolia bent down with delicate hands, scooping them up. She glanced across the street and saw two boys running about. She smiled brightly, calling, “Thank you kindly, dears, for not stepping on my roses.” They stopped and frowned, confused.
Magnolia had always been a good baker. She baked cakes and bread often. At neighborhood potlucks, her pies disappeared first. Children who had visited her remembered three things about her: the smell of cinnamon drifting across the fence, the way she pinched your cheek when you visited, and her warm smile.