An impatient four-year-old 

sits at the counter of the kitchen, 

silently watching her mother whisk, whip, and stir.

Mother is baking today.  

Methodically combining and magically creating,

her daughter absorbs her every step.

A “man eater” cake, she calls it.

Light, fluffy, sweet sponge, 

 a staple of her childhood.

With every turn of the mixer,

with every measurement of flour,

her daughter memorizes every step.

Finally, mother hands over the whisk.

An honor never felt so bright. 

Her daughter gleams at the intertwining rings.

One pudgy hand on the bowl and another holding the magical whisk,

the daughter watches the mixture combine into a delicious batter, 

each rotation of the whisk ribboning off luscious yellow batter.

I still remember those days, 

my mother and I spent hours in the kitchen. 

Baking all day, we were never bored.

I think about the excitement I had 

when I was finally handed that whisk. 

That rusted, magical whisk. 

Now, a beloved memory. 

I pry the weight of that cold metal stand mixer off the counter top.

Offsetting the weight with my hip, I begin to walk out. 

The memories are stronger now.

The day when we upgraded to the mixer, 

the excitement in my eyes gleaming against the shining metal surface. 

I remember baking with my mother.

Now, her love for it has passed down to me. 

She is my greatest influence. 

My mother and I no longer bake together, 

her love for it has faded with the years

She has a packed and busy schedule, I am the only one with time.

As I walk with the clumsy metal stand mixer,

I feel proud of what I have learned. 

My mother tells me every day how she is too.

I loved that kitchen, 

I loved that house, 

I loved that life, 

Walking out of the house, 

I hear the sirens blaring, 

their shrieks ring in my ears.

I still have that massive stand mixer, 

I still remember that life,

but it has all changed now.

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

It is my mother.

I melt into her arms. 

We watch our beloved house, 

as the flames engulf the wooden exterior, 

turning to coal in front of our eyes. 

Yet I feel a sort of peace—I still have what I love, 

that stupid metal stand mixer,

and the woman that brought me all this way.

I hold my mother closer than ever.

Silent tears stream down my face. 

Unflinching, I stare into those deep orange flames. 

I will not forget this house,

I will not forget this life, 

I will not forget that kitchen.  

I turn my back to the blazing flames.

My dad, sisters, and dog are patiently waiting for me. 

I know now the strength of their love. 

I know we will be okay.