Remembering My Mother
I sit on the counter and watch my mother scurry from fridge to cupboard to pantry, gathering the ingredients of life in her bony hands and depositing them on the faded yellow Formica beside me. She measures each item carefully, smiling and singing, pouring and stirring. A cloud billows as she adds the flour. The particles hang in the air, floating in the golden spotlight streaming through the window at my back. I breathe the stale dust deep into my lungs; harboring a piece of my mother’s work inside me forever.
The sound of sifting sugar and a scraping spoon brings me back to her hands. Slender fingers swiftly working the spatula around the curved edge of the bowl. Next she gathers the eggs from their soft home, cradling them in a towel before spilling their life with a quick hand. Vanilla is splashed beside them—a stain spreading through the snowy slush. The scent lingers on the back of my tongue. Its sweet warmth closes my eyes and lifts my spirit.
The heat of the oven surrounds us. My ears are full of her songs, my heart full of her love. I watch in wonder as she creates something from nothing. The same way she made me.
With a smile in her eyes and a song on her lips, breaking the bread of life for her family, that is how I remember my mother.
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To this day, baking takes me back to those days on the counter watching my mother work. Happy Mother’s Day, Momma. I love you!