I stand in the kitchen at 4 pm,
Rushing to make last-minute brownies for a soon
Departing sister;
I pour in flaxseed and fake butter,
For her, for her.
The oven’s dance card is full.
I slide in the tray for a forty minute reel.
While stirring the batter my wrist circles
Like time,
And grasps a wooden spoon two decades old.
While cleaning up I raise its shallow bowl
To my mouth, the light wood stained mahogany with chocolate,
Face down, and pull it through my mouth.
It is the same as
When we made lemonade in a cloudy pitcher
With tearaway packets, the spoon clunking
Along the bottom; the song of unrefined motor skills.
We had to taste test; Mom offered us each a sip
From the shallow spoon, the lemonade seeming to
Disappear before it reached us.
We couldn’t get sick from each other; families had the same germs
And baked cookies with Dad,
The only food he could make besides
A can of tuna, Cool Ranch Doritos, and a glass of Coke with the perfect amount of ice.
We passed the spoon around, arms fatigued from mixing,
Until he,
So much stronger than us,
Took back over,
And stirred with such vigor that it seemed fun again
So we begged for the spoon back,
Only to taste test from its worn lip.
It is the same.
I put the spoon in my mouth and it is the same.
Its rugged texture still suggesting splinters, only to be worn smooth.
It remembers the pattern of my taste buds.
Put that old wooden spoon against my tongue—
It holds so much of me and them—
And I will find my way home.
