(For they were more than sweetness — they were sanctuary.)
O blessed be the worn wooden spoon,
the one smoothed soft by decades of dough.
The chipped mixing bowl that bore witness
to a thousand tiny miracles.
Sing, O pantry, of Grandma’s sugar cookies —
round as moons, soft as forgiveness,
their edges kissed with the faintest crisp,
their hearts tender as a secret kept safe.
For lo, she measured not with cups but with instinct,
and stirred with the wisdom of hands
that had folded grief and joy into equal measure.
A pinch of salt, a whisper of vanilla,
and the hush of flour falling like first snow.
The oven glowed like a small benevolent sun,
and we waited — patient, reverent supplicants —
until the air was thick with promise and sugar.
And when at last they emerged,
warm and yielding, crowned with a dusting of gold,
we broke bread at the altar of childhood
and tasted what love could be
when translated into butter and light.
May we never forget their language.
May we keep that recipe folded in the margins
of our own becoming,
and may the scent of them rise,
forever, whenever memory hungers.
Leave a Reply