The scent of cinnamon, brown sugar, & sweet butter slide up my nostrils like an entire childhood.
I disappear into high school days, God searching days, free verse days.
I evaporate into burnt orange carpet, pea green walls, Marlboro stained curtains.
I write in tablets, hundreds of tablets, page after page of tablets. I skip lines, scribble, jot down the names of poets I want to read, boys I want to kiss, metaphors I don’t understand.
I do not fully recognize my own feelings, my thoughts, and mostly, my shadows.
I find Plath. She gets me. I find it absolutely astonishing how a stranger can write the things I think.
Holy shit, I am not crazy after all.
Or perhaps I am.
My mother is a stay-at-home-mother, a goddess, a saint.
My sister and I watch her create ‘real’ cinnamon buns, not the store bought variety.
We watch her shift around the kitchen— her apron strings swinging from side to side like Poe’s Pendulum.
She kneads the dough; her strong hands rising and falling oh-so beautifully, oh-so-masterfully.
She melts the butter, then rubs it over the buns with her slender fingers. Her wedding bands are still on—glittering gold like happy wives.
She tells us to grab handfuls of brown sugar, pecans, cinnamon, nutmeg.
Joyfully, we do as she says.
While the buns brown, we dance barefooted on yellowed kitchen linoleum to Patsy Cline.
“My God, now that’s a voice,” my mother purrs.
She extends her right hand out to Kay—then her left hand out to me
and begins to twist.
We weave against each other until our sides hurt, until our breath lessens.
I can still taste my mother’s cherry lipstick upon my mouth, still smell her hair spray.
I can still hear my sister’s bountiful laughing. It lingers in every corner & resonates in my soul like warm, sweet air.
This is the reason we have memories, isn’t it? This is the reason we relive what is stored inside.
To gather up its heat for later use.
Gooey cinnamon buns. Sisters. Poetry. Dancing on yellowed linoleum with the Goddess.
O’, the love pours over these moments like beautiful benedictions.
——–Darling, Reader, have you stored up beautiful memories to relive?
–Sign up for the Kay Marie Sisto Walk To End Domestic Violence Here: http://www.theduluthmodel.org/events.html