One Last Breakfast With Nana

If I could go back to one morning, it would be the one where Nana gathered us all into the car and made Papa drive us to the supermarket just because I wanted fruit salad.

I can still hear her voice asking me what I wanted for breakfast, her words like music, as if choosing my favourite meal was the most important decision she’d make that day. When she realized there wasn’t any fruit salad left, you’d think it was a national emergency. With a swift motion, she’d gathered us into the car—no questions, no second thoughts. Papa, ever the quiet accomplice, pulled out of the driveway without a word. There we were, off on a mission, as if the world couldn’t go on without it.

Because to Nana, it couldn’t. Not if one of her mokos wanted something.

It didn’t matter that they didn’t have much. Nana made sure you’d never know that. Every birthday, a parcel from her would arrive wrapped in the kind of love that money can’t buy. She didn’t forget. Not once. Nana always knew how to show up in the ways that mattered. It was never about what she could give, but how she made you feel like you were the most important person in her universe.

And to her, you were.

Somehow, she had this magic in her that made every one of her mokos feel like they were her favourite. Like there was some unspoken pact between us that we were in on something special that nobody else knew. She’d pull you close with a twinkle in her eye, ask you about your day and you’d believe in that moment that no one had ever been listened to quite like you were being listened to. There’s this rare love that only grandmothers know how to give—the kind where they fill all the cracks in your life with their laughter and the way their hands feel when they’re holding your hand, so full of care and gentleness.

That morning was no different. The way Nana looked at me when we found the fruit salad in the store like we’d just won the lottery—her smile so warm it felt like sunshine breaking through clouds. As we sat down to eat, she made sure I had the biggest bowl, serving me first as if she hadn’t just moved mountains to make it happen. The fruit was sweet, but not as sweet as the memory of her leaning across the table, making sure I had enough of what I wanted.

Now, I think about that breakfast often. How, at the time, it was just another morning, just Nana being Nana. Looking back, I see it for what it was: a love letter she was writing to me, in the only way she knew how. Every moment with her was a gift I didn’t know I was receiving.

If I could have one more morning, one last breakfast with Nana, I’d choose it in a heartbeat. Even if we were out of fruit salad, I know she’d find a way to make me feel like the most cherished person at the table. Just like she always did. 

If I could have one last breakfast with her, I wouldn’t take it for granted. I’d sit at the table a little longer, even after the food was gone, just to hear the sound of her voice. I’d savor the quiet moments between sips from my bowl, the way she’d hum under her breath, some old song that only she remembered. I’d soak in every second of her laughter, the way it filled the room and made everything seem lighter, brighter.

Because that’s what Nana did—she made the world softer just by being in it.

I’d make sure to leave just a little bit of food on my plate, pretending I wasn’t quite finished, just so the moment wouldn’t end. I’d keep asking for refills, maybe a little more juice or just one more slice of toast. I’d find any reason to keep sitting there, stretching time like it could somehow last forever. If the plate wasn’t clean, if there was still food to be eaten, maybe the breakfast wouldn’t be over and I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. 

Or maybe I’d just never leave the table at all. I’d sit there watching her move around the kitchen, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun and the sound of her slippers shuffling on the floor. I’d watch her wipe down the counters, rearrange the salt and pepper shakers, hum that same old tune, and I’d let it all sink in.

Every little detail that made her Nana.

When the clock strikes and morning turns to noon, when the light shifts and the day insists on moving forward, I will be the one to offer the closing prayer, requesting God bless every inch of my beautiful nana as she journeys on to whatever comes after breakfast. I’d linger in the doorway holding on for just a second longer, memorizing the way the light fell on her as she waved goodbye. Because in that moment, I’d know that even though the breakfast had to end, even though the world would eventually pull me away from that table, the love behind every moment we shared would stay with me.

It would live on in every memory, every spoonful of fruit salad, every quiet morning where I find myself wishing for one more breakfast.

One last morning with her.

Payton x