Gingerbread Cookies

Let's head downstairs and bake some cookies, just like Mom used to. The warm aroma fills your nostrils, comforting and familiar. Forget the axe-murderer imagery; it's Christmas, after all. So let’s make some cookies.

You take one step, then another, feeling excited. You’ve never baked gingerbread cookies before, fearing they’d never be as good as Mom’s. What was her secret ingredient? Was it sugar, spice, or maybe love?

Your heart beats faster as you set the oven. Unsure of the temperature, you guess 300º should do. You’re about to turn the dial when you spot a baking tray inside. Curious and confused, you pull it out. On it are perfectly cut gingerbread men in tiny tuxedos with white buttons, each smiling with white teeth and green eyes that seem to watch you. One holds a note in its hand, which you snatch.

“To my little boy,

Time flies! It feels like yesterday when fate separated us. Enjoy these cookies; they’re just like mine.

Love,

Mother”

Ding! Ten minutes have passed while you read the note repeatedly. Now, you’re supposed to start baking.

“How hot?” you wonder aloud.

“Very hot,” Mom’s voice echoes in your memory.

You slide the tray in, thinking there’s nothing to it. As the minutes pass, their expressions change. The once cheerful smiles fade, and their red frosting mouths fall off. You remember that awful night when Mom clutched her heart, yelling for help as the ambulance raced to your home.

Suddenly, one gingerbread man stirs. It looks at you, lifeless eyes staring, and slowly stands up. It walks to the tray’s edge, steps off, and falls into the fiery oven below with a clunk.

“Mother?” you ask, trembling. Was she asleep? No, she was gone.

Others follow, forming a line and taking their own leaps. “Mother will be okay,” they all seem to say.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

A pile of gingerbread charcoal grows, and within it, a face. Mom’s face, smiling that familiar gingerbread smile. Is it relief or scorn? It doesn’t matter. Her smile is what you’ve longed for, even if it feels empty now.

Who’s to blame for Mom’s absence?

Yet, every year, you bake these cookies, the memory of the last attempt fading beneath the waves of nostalgia. You hope they taste like Mom’s. You hope they bring her back, even if just for a moment.

---

Let's head downstairs and bake some cookies, just like Mom used to. The comforting aroma fills your nostrils, making you feel at home. Axe-murderer thoughts? Not today. It's Christmas, a time for joy. So, let's make some cookies.

You take one step, then another, the anticipation building. You’ve never tried making gingerbread cookies before. Mom's were always perfect. What was her secret? Sugar, spice, or maybe love?

Your heart pounds as you set the oven temperature. Unsure of the right setting, you opt for 300º. As you reach for the dial, you spot a tray already inside the oven. Curious, you pull it out. On it, perfectly cut gingerbread men in tiny tuxedos greet you, each smiling with white teeth and green eyes. One holds a note, which you eagerly grab.

“To my dear son,

Time has flown by! It feels like just yesterday when fate separated us. I hope these cookies bring you joy, just like mine used to.

Love,

Mother”

Ding! You realize ten minutes have passed while you read and reread the note. Time to start baking.

“How hot should it be?” you ponder.

“Very hot,” Mom’s voice echoes in your mind.

You slide the tray in, thinking it can’t be that hard. As minutes tick by, the gingerbread men's smiles fade. You remember that dreadful night when Mom needed help, and you felt helpless.

Suddenly, one gingerbread man moves. It looks at you, lifeless eyes staring, then slowly stands and walks to the tray’s edge. It steps off, disappearing into the fiery oven with a soft clunk.

“Mom?” you ask, shaken. Was she sleeping? No, she was gone.

Others follow, forming a line and taking turns leaping off. “Don’t worry, Mom will be fine,” they seem to assure.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

A pile of gingerbread charcoal forms, and within it, a familiar face. Mom’s face, wearing that same gingerbread smile. Is it a sign of relief or something else? It doesn’t matter. Her smile, however empty, is what you long for.

Who’s responsible for Mom’s absence?

Yet, every year, you bake these cookies, memories of past attempts fading. You hope they'll taste like Mom’s. You hope they'll bring her back, even for a moment.