When I was little,
I promised myself
that I would be a great baker
just like my mom.

So when December came around,
and the windows
were rimmed with frost
and snow blanketed the yard,
we would pull out the cookie sheet,
lay out the ingredients,
and begin our eve of baking.

Christmas fever
would take over the room
as we blasted my favorite holiday tunes,
singing along
attempting to hit every note
we could.

After everything was lumped
into one giant glass bowl,
she would fill each space
with the gooey dough
as I fetched the multicolored sprinkles from the drawer.

We grinned and giggled,
danced and hummed,
as we tried to occupy
our growling stomach
that craved the desserts that bronzed in the oven.

A toasty savory fragrance
filled the room
as the timer on the stove counted down
to its last few seconds.

When those drawn out minutes
had finally ended,
the clock buzzed,
and it was time
to start decorating.

She glazed while I was the artist,
making shapes and pictures
out of the tiny sticks of sugar
on each one.

I stood on my toes
on the light mahogany chair
as I showered the tiny specks
of ruby and jade
all over the cookies
like the falling snow outside.
When each cookie was garnished with accessories
and our mouths were watering,
we each grabbed our favorite masterpiece,
and sank our teeth
into our first bite,
not caring that dinner
had been skipped.

Our sweet tooth was grateful,
our hearts were warm,
and I was sitting across
from my favorite person
in the whole world,

my mom.