You still smell it before you open the door. The bread, the warm sugar, the thing that means safe. She's smaller now. You have to lean down to hug her, and I don't remember having to do that.
Look, the cookie jar is still the fat white one with the crack in the lid. You know the crack is there. Your hand went straight to it without looking. I love that your hand still knows.
Why are you writing down what she does? You've got the little glowing rectangle propped against the flour tin and you keep asking her how much, how long, and she keeps saying a little of this, you'll know. You never used to need to know. You just used to eat.
She let you stir. She's letting you do the whole thing now, and she's just sitting at the table with her hands folded, watching. That's new. That scares me a little.
But you're humming. Same song. The one from the radio she keeps on the windowsill. And when it came out of the oven you broke a piece off too soon and burned your fingers and laughed exactly the same laugh.
I made a promise once, standing on the wobbly stool at this counter. I said when I got big I would learn every single thing she knows so it never goes away.
You're learning it. Right now. I can see you're learning it fast, like there's not much time.
Will you teach it to somebody small someday?
Will you let them stir?