a memory: flowers, cookies

1. It is a new yellow morning and it is Easter. The house is still, and a warm smell gently rides the air. I awaken and totter from a warm bed, bare feet pattering upon the unfinished wood floor and braving splinters in sleepy investigation. I cannot be older than two or three years old, and my memory is tinted with daffodil hues. Yellow is so vulnerable and comfortable, and it softens the edges of the scene as my be-pudged legs bring me into the early-morning kitchen. Small as I am, the table looms above me, and a floral vista captures my gaze. The scent of sugar and vanilla and buttery warmth still floats upon the air, and as I draw near to her chair, my mother enfolds me into her lap. On the tabletop a vase overflows with the tulips and daffodils that had bloomed with the morning sun, and chocolate chip cookies are mounded in perfect disorder on a plate. “Look, Felicia,” my mother gestures, and I follow her gaze. A pink rose, petals yet to unfurl, has been tucked in with the green stems of the spring bulbs. “The Easter bunny brought it for us,” she says with a smile, and I believe that I knew it was she and only she who could create such a perfect morning scene as this. It is so early and awash with yellow, and as she places a cookie in my hand I nestle into her bosom and sigh. It is my mother and I, and it is a perfect moment, the likes of which are so few and far and cherished in this lifetime.