Poetry: Christmas Cookie Pictures

I remember cinnamon;
the kind that tickles your rosy November nose and kisses your cheek.
Entering the house with the red door,
Greeted with a hug from the sweet and spiced aroma of pie,
Grandma’s apple pie.

Christmas cookies a week before.
The 6-year-old girl who could barely reach the counter
Standing on her tippy-toes for a picture.
Rolling out dough in her favorite red checkered apron.
Raspberry, apricot, prune.
The jam sweet but tart like autumn.

Swinging open the door after school,
the warm smell of something I can’t quite describe.
It’s Grandma’s chicken soup,
and it’s home.

I remember not being able to walk into that house anymore,
The door smeared black.
Change moving so quickly.
And although I was already 18,
my childhood ended there.

I always wanted to reach the counter,
to grow up and dream chase and find big things.
But my purest happiness was right there,
On a wooden counter that has since been wiped and cleaned of memory.