image from poetess' personal scraptbook
"Thanks, Mom," for all the holiday baking memories"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The oven hums, a steady hymn. Like December's first snow, flour drifts across the countertop. Her hands~ kneading, rolling, pressing~ leave maps in the dough. I trace them with a cookie cutter, star-shaped, blunt at the edges. Powdered sugar hangs in the air, a sweet ghost. We laugh, and it sticks to our cheeks, to the aprons she sewed from fabric scraps, to the memories we don’t yet know we’re making. The timer rings. The cookies glow. And for a moment, the whole world is warm.
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