19Fanny

As a child, I didn’t like being separated from my mother. The one exception was when she left me at my grandmother’s house—Girl, as she was called. In truth, I was not so much in my grandmother’s care as I was in the care of Fanny, her cook and housekeeper. I hardly saw Girl at all.

Fanny’s whole being embodied love.

I would be crying when my mother left, and Fanny would gather me up into her arms, holding me tight against her ample bosom. “Hold your horses,” she would say softly, assuring me that Mama would be back soon.

Then she would carry me out to the little table on the back porch and sit me down. Before long, she’d return with a glass of milk and a plate of freshly baked cookies. After setting them in front of me, she would quietly leave.

I would keep crying for a while longer—out of loyalty to my sorrow, it seemed—until the cookies began to call to me. Slowly, I would look around to see if anyone was watching, and then, little by little, I would begin to eat and drink.

Somewhere between the milk and the last cookie, I would forget that I was unhappy.

I loved Fanny, and I cherish my memories of her.