Chandler Street
My Grandad missed our wedding. He didn't get to meet his great-grandchildren either, but I thought about him on a hot Sunday afternoon in my backyard, listening to our wind chime. Its alto bell tone called me to the back roads of my memory, where I stayed for a while beneath the swaying branches of our Pin Oak trees. Grandad is there waiting under the striped, canvas awning that covers the deck behind his and Grandmom's house on Chandler Street--Summer tumblers filled with tea, sweating with condensation that drips onto the glass table, the breeze grazing our skin, and the hum of traffic from the boulevard a few blocks away. We talk about all the latest and the what-will-comes-- Grandad always setting the bar high for me. The wind chime that hangs from our clothesline was once my Grandparents'. It hung in their serene, little yard, bordered by Grandmom's flower beds that she kept with care and meticulous attention. A winding brick pathway led into the grass from the o...