the green house with the green chairs

She was kind, in her German sort of way. She'd say "Yaugh, yaugh," and kiss us on both cheeks when we greeted her. Her house was green, inside and out; she had a green kitchen with green cupboards and green chairs. There was green carpet in the living room which smelled of old things - treasures that had sailed across the sea to America, just as she had. There was always a nice woman there to help her; to braid her hair, to cook for her, and, towards the end, to help her in and out of bed. She liked it when we played the violin and the cello, saying, "Sankyou! Sankyou!" (like she had just won Battleship) as we pulled out the last bow stroke. For as long as I can remember, and even towards the end, she'd say farewell in the same manner: Placing a shiny quarter in each of our palms, she'd fold our fingers to cover it. As soon as we reached the edge of the room, Aunt Martha would kiss the back of her hand, then use her index finger and her thumb to flick the kiss across to us, winking as we walked down the back steps.

Not only do I bare her name, I now have some of her treasures; dainty handkerchiefs embroidered with an "M," a gold bracelet with a monogrammed charm, and a green stationary set with "Martha" across the top. It smells of her green house. And, tucked safely under the box of stationary and stack of handkerchiefs is an envelope with my name on it, written in her scrolling script. Inside are four quarters, which have lost their luster, but have grown in meaning as I've learned to appreciate the time I had with her and the memories I can keep.