June 14, 2012

I want to make butter for you. In the blue of early dawn I want to press strain salt curl it into an opaque white and yellow bowl like the Pyrex found down-low in the Lazy Susan cabinet of your grandmother’s kitchen. Or maybe your mother’s kitchen after Grandma has passed because it reminds her of pie crumbs stuck to the corners of her lips and all the wedges of sunlight from her cul-de-sac childhood.

I want to set that butter next to a stack of pancakes, topped the way you like them with my lemon icing and fresh fruit, probably pears. I want to sit back in a creaking chair, maybe sometimes pushing a bite-sized triangle around my plate, but mostly watching you and sipping hot coffee and listening as you tell me how good these pancakes are and how you could eat the whole stack and maybe then some, yes.

Before you leave I want you to press your hand into my lower back and tilt your head sideways to kiss my neck and I’ll flinch probably and say your beard tickles my skin and pretend I need to get this butter covered up in plastic wrap quick, but really, there’s no other place I’d rather be in the world except here. Making you butter.

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One Response to “”

  1. Amanda Says:

    You’re too good. I enjoy waking up to these stories!!


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