by Amy B. Moreno
a strong cup of tea with milk and one sugar
The kitchen is cloaked in smells of
comfort food; like it’s wrapped up in an old dressing gown. Her hand trembles slightly as she pipes icing
around the edges of the cake. She’s
never tried this recipe before, never had the time. When the loop is completed, she brushes her
hands together, wiping off the recent nerves.
As the icing sets, her eyes grow restless and are drawn to the kitchen
window, and the garden outside.
Today,
it's coated in white, with all its softness curled up underneath; a cat tucking
in her paws and closing her eyes. Nature’s
favourite sweets peek through the frosting – red berries, shiny ivy, the first brave
crocus.
The
long-empty swings are silenced and frozen in time. They have forgotten how to dance, ankles
becoming heavy. Memories of footprints
pepper the lawn. The pair of rowan trees
sigh in relief and sorrow at no longer being demanded and pulled on, but they
don’t yet know what to do with their empty branches. The deflated footballs and
rebellious teenage cigarette butts remain hidden, in forgotten corners. It’s a garden mosaic, measured on the
doorframe with each growing inch, until the pieces were too big for the garden,
too tall for the house.
An
icy breeze whistles through the edge of the window frame, mingling with the
warmth beating from the oven, and brushing against her cheek as a kiss. The frame
will need replaced; she’s never had the time before. She begins to wash and tidy away the bowls
and tools; she knows there are things she’d like to do, and she’ll find out
what they are.
This is a time for waiting patiently – for the next season to arrive, and all
it will entail.
About the author
Twitter: @Amy_B_Moreno
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