Inside my hand
The egg feels cool and smooth.
I hear the crack as its shell opens,
Edges sharp —
Yet the white and yolk drop
Into the bowl undisturbed.
It is I, the baker, who, whisk in hand,
Must perturb
The little sun at the bottom of the bowl.
But I suddenly pause in the midst of my mindless routine.
I find myself with memories of my German grandmother.
Her recipe card now ragged and fading
Her handwriting spotted as the ink has absorbed
Ingredients from years past.
She knew the smoothness of the egg, the jagged shell
The yellow globe at the bottom of her bowl.
Did she know that someday her granddaughter
Would mix the egg with oil, brown sugar, vanilla, molasses?
That her granddaughter would add in the flour and baking soda,
Stirring until she could scoop up balls full of the smell
Of caramelly, burnt sweetness
To dip in white sugar and place on the baking sheet?
I never got to make cookies with my grandmother.
But I know as I take the first cookie off the still warm tray —
The white sugar now sparkling on its browned, crinkled surface —
That she is offering it to me —
In remembrance of what we now share.
Thank you for reading my poetry.
