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Runcible Spoon

heart logo Privacy Notice Sarah Dickenson Snyder

After School

 

In any kingdom, something grows

and moves in—the sticks of butter stacked

in waxed paper packs in our refrigerator.

 

My mother baked. A lot. When I think of her,

she is wearing an apron. The avocado

colored counters hold a parade

 

of rows of brown edged cookies on wire racks,

the darkened pans cooling on the stove.

A ceramic bowl is in the sink, filled

 

with measuring cups, spoons, and suds.

She will clean up later. Does she know

how much I liked walking in

 

through the wide screen door,

its solid slap behind me and smelling

butter, sugar, and vanilla?