Poema by Anne

A day to stave off summer storms with breakfast for dinner & oreo rice-krispy treats. A day to turn up the music in the kitchen, sing to Adele at the top of our [my] lungs and pretend to dip & sway as though we [I] were in the middle of a grand ballroom somewhere in European mountains.

I always dream when I bake.


No longer in a kitchen, I am halfway around the world where color swirls on an open-aired dance floor: castles in the air sprinkled into mashed Oreo crumbs.

.

I never fret when I bake. No thoughts of future, only thoughts of now. Marshmallows & butter melt together in the microwave; fears of tomorrow melt away, too: it's just me & the music, my out of tune voice trying to reach crescendoed mountains it will never know; my heart no longer sputtering as it tries to hide the strain of doubt.

When it is finished, the air is changed, even just for a little while: the smell, the smiles, the peace, the gratitude. Baking is completion and creation: both are difficult to come by in a place of fragment and frenzy.




Here you see that it was good.