The Writing Pulse

Honestly… it’s the memories of my Nana back home in Massachusetts. She was the anchor of our whole bloodline — the kind of woman whose presence held generations together without her ever having to say it out loud.

I think about **Sunday dinners**, the whole house buzzing, pots clattering, cousins running wild, and Nana moving through the kitchen in one of her ankle‑length skirts like she was one of the boys. And she really was — a bona fide *boy Nana* long before I was born, after raising four boys back‑to‑back before my mother finally had girls. She kept up with them, too. Tough, funny, unshakeable.

I think about the walks to church, her hand wrapped around mine, the sun hitting her long curly natural hair — the same curls and high cheekbones that carried our Cherokee heritage like a quiet crown. She never tried to hide where we came from. She wore it.

I think about the Chinese spot by her house, the one we’d hit after service or on random afternoons when she didn’t feel like cooking. The smell of fried rice and sweet‑and‑sour sauce drifted into the car while she told stories about “back in her day.”

I think about her kitchen, how the walls always smelled like fresh coffee no matter what time it was, and how her pantry smelled like Holy oil — like prayer lived there. Like protection lived there.

And I’ll never forget her dog‑shaped cookie jar, the one that sat on the counter like a guardian. Every kid in the family tried to sneak cookies from it, and somehow she always knew.

Those memories — the warmth, the noise, the love, the culture, the history — that’s what nostalgia feels like for me. It’s not just remembering her. It’s remembering who I was when she was here… and who she helped me become.