The hallways smelled of whatever her neighbors were cooking. Sauteed onions, roasting beef, frying chicken.

Her own apartment was neat, orderly and filled with treasures; a blown glass grand piano, oil paintings by her mother, small shelves filled with items gathered in her world travels.

The couch material was green, itchy and hot, I much preferred one of the rocking chairs; a delicate cream upholstered one with dark wood, a larger one that sat beside it that had once been leather, then a satin stripe and now sits beside my own fire place in a blue fabric I chose when preparing it for my nursery a quarter century ago.

The kitchen had a table with space for two, a paper napkin that she used for weeks as a time was folded precisely and lay atop the radio. Her coffee percolator and canisters were clear class. She could create magic with the small efficient gas stove.

The bedroom housed a set of furniture from another era, on her dresser was a small framed photo of my father as a child.

I would never know my grandmother but it was her sister who never married and lived in the apartment adjacent to my own yard as a child where I felt the way my friends felt about their own grandmas.