Magical Milk

*The inspiration for today's blog came from the joyful news that my gandfather's once-aggressive cancer is officially in remission.  Grandpa, I love you.*

I can rest my chin on the yellow counter top.  The linoleum tile under my feet is warm and a little clammy; the air conditioning has only recently been turned on for the summer.  The air smells like a mixture between chlorine bleach and meatloaf.  I brush my hair out of my eyes with one hand.  I am waiting for Him.

He is tall, and His deep voice booms throughout the condominium when He can't find my grandmother.  The top of my head seems level with His belt, and I secretly fear that He will trample me beneath His feet.  When I am read Jack and the Beanstalk, I picture Him.  Fee Fi Fo Fum.When he sneezes, I check to make sure my shoes haven't blown away. 

He shuffles about the house in the morning wearing a blue and white cotton bathrobe, hair erect and coffee cup in hand.  His morning routine is divided between both bathrooms; one for shaving, one for showering, back to the first for skin care, back to the second for hair.  Grandma waits patiently in her floral nightgown until mid-morning, sipping coffee as He prepares for the day.  When He emerges, He is a fine-looking man.

It is almost time for supper.  The table is set, Wheel of Fortune is playing on the tiny TV in the kitchen.  Grandma calls for Him.  He enters the kitchen without making a sound, but somehow I can hear Him.  He looks at me, then approaches the glass of milk sitting on the counter in front of me.  I wait. 

He extends a hand up into the cabinet I cannot reach.  Tucked in the back, behind the plates, to His secret hiding place.  He pulls out the little tan and red box: McCormick's Food Coloring.  Four little bottles, red, blue, green, and yellow.  They are squat, sassy elves with pointy hats.  He looks down at me. 

"What color?"

I think, long and hard.  It's a difficult decision, one not to be taken lightly.  I consider the merits of an earth tone, like green or yellow, but decide against both; I'm feeling girly.  After much deliberation, I make my decision.

"Purple."

I watch.  He takes out the blue bottle, removes the lid, and gently squeezes.  Drop...Drop...Drop.  Next, the red bottle.  Drop... Drop.  With a teaspoon, He swirls the milk.  I like the noise the utensils makes as it gently whacks the slides of the glass. 

My milk is purple.  He glances at me and, with no more than a look, asks me if the color is right.  I nod.  The violet concoction is the perfect shade, magical behind the yellow and red tulips on the cup.

He is tall, loud and silent.  He is magical milk, and the clack of a spoon against a little girl's glass.  At least four of the seven dwarves throughout the course of one day.  This is Him.  My grandfather.