What's Mine Is Yours

“Come on in here,” Granny would whisper, looking around, making sure the coast was clear – no other grandkids watching.

In her bedroom, she’d leave the door cracked to keep watch while she rooted around in the plank-boards that served her for shelving. Looting her store of treasures, she’d press things into my hand quickly, and we’d make our “innocent” exit.

Outside, on the wrap-around porch, I’d enjoy the spoils: A wrinkled, too-ripe apple, a Butterfinger, stale and chewy with age.

Later, with adult cousins, finding that we all shared the same story – did not decrease the magic one, single bit.