Cinnamon

I bolted through the back door from a long day of play to find my grandmother whipping and stirring.

Nutmeg sang tenor sugar hummed soprano “I’m making sweet potato pie” she smiled.

Her face becomes the pie sweet and brown the pie becomes her face cozy and safe.

She knew my taste buds were in ecstasy when the pie indulged them.

“Go wash up and help me”

I sprinted to the bathroom feet skidding on the tiles never happier to see soap and running water.

Racing back to the kitchen through hallways that seemed endless

I arrived and awaited instruction.

She released her spoon into my small, salivating hands.

“Stir.”

This is the short scene I keep in a VHS container on my dusty bookshelf I replay it when I need to feel safe to feel needed.

I trudge through the front doors from a stressful workday to find my grandmother seated in front of the TV chuckling in sync to the laugh track of a game show re-run.

Her legs reclined in the air Her legs too frail to stand endless hours in her kitchen.

I know how much she misses it

so sometimes I ask her about an old recipe I already know all the steps to just so she can close her eyes and draw out a long

“hmmmm”.

And she takes her mind back and she sees herself whipping and stirring with me next to her strong legs palms out awaiting instruction.