Cinnamon Waffles

The smell of childhood sweeps across the air, awakening all those within reach. It is the smell of cinnamon waffles, a smell so familiar as if I had stepped into a picture frame, with my mother laughing in the kitchen making cinnamon-covered waffles, cutting fresh strawberries, and brewing vanilla coffee. The windows are open, letting every last drop of sunlight into the room, lighting up the bloomed yellow daffodils that filled every corner of the room—somehow, the yellow daffodils bloomed year-round. A light string of jazz music fills the air bringing the mood of an old black-at-white movie.

The doorbell rings and swings open with our neighbors' friendly faces, all drawn in by the hypnotizing smell of my mom's waffles. She laughs as she hugs them, wishes them all a good morning, and lets them into our small living room. The room fills with warmth of, love and happiness. Laughter rises as the table is set, with colorful table settings and mitch match plates. My mother could never buy the same dish twice. She would piss off all of the flea market vendors. Yet she still managed to get what she wanted. She just had that way with people. The mugs are filled with vanilla coffee, and the plates are filled with her cinnamon waffles, which are covered in strawberries, syrup, and butter. Everyone laughs and talks about their week and who is dating who—just the weekly gossip.

After breakfast, the plates are all cleared, and the table is pushed to the side of the room. My favorite neighbor Mr. Carboodle then pulls out his banjo, his wife, pulls out her drum, and their son starts singing. And so the dance party began. We never ate lunch on Sundays, for this was our lunch, music, and dance. We did not need anymore—breakfast with the neighbors and a dance party that led us through sunset. Mom would say, "we don't go to church because the church is where you are the happiest. And God gave us this happiness, so on Sundays, this was our church. We pray with the sound of music and dance.” After everyone left, we would go to the roof with a plate of cookies and a giant blanket. We lay down and tried to look up at the stars. We lived in the city, so it wasn't easy to see them all. We only were ever able to see very few. But I didn’t care about the stars. I just cared about the woman next to me. It was terrific; it was amazing because she was there with me. And I know that if I opened my eyes right now, I would end up in my room alone on my bed with only my thoughts to keep me company. I want to stay here a little longer.

But I know that is not my reality anymore. My Sunday would consist of unpacking the many boxes that litter my empty apartment. And she won’t be there with me. She won't be there dancing or making cinnamon waffles. We won't go to the roof to star gaze. And she would love it here. You can see so many more stars than in the city. But she won't see any of that because she is forever asleep at the Sunset Lawn Cemetery. Laying eight feet below the sun she once danced under. Now the only thing dancing is the yellow daffodils that grow around her grayed headstone. Even after death, life still seems to blossom all around her. And I knew the smell of cinnamon waffles wasn’t coming from her.

I open my eyes.