I Keep Trying
Surrounded by the smells of cinnamon sugar, nutmeg, pumpkin pie, and evaporated milk,
I sprinkle flour on my dough, and roll it out nice and thick, anticipating frosting these cookies.
Children’s laughter floats in through the window, opened just a crack, to bring in October’s cool air.
Dusty apron makes me smile, worn tens of years ago, by my own grandmother, a sweet soul.
I will go out and watch them playing football, piling into each other like puppies, waiting for the timer.
Then we will come in, all pink cheeked happy, and devour the warm hot offerings, sprinkled with sugar.
If there are any extra cookies, I could make up some frosting, but I know from experience
That children, on a warm October day, want to eat their cookies now, preferring them over the pies.
Five hours until supper, so I pound my roast into submission, before dropping it into my crockpot.
When the children come inside for their tasty treat, one says “It smells like grandma’s house!” in awe,
In the same voice I used to use, with the same delight, at my own sweet grandma’s house.
I will never be the cook she was, or the baker, but this does not keep me from trying.
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