25 minutes, 375° F
The sweet smell lingers through the room
To the wall opposite the oven,
Touching it and bouncing back to me
I can feel my mouth begin to water.
I tell myself “You don’t like to eat these things, you like to make them.”
But my brain tells me otherwise
I can feel the heat from the oven at the kitchen table.
15 minutes.
I get up.
I pace.
I remember July, baking at Jarred’s for him and his dad.
The joy that radiated from their smiles.
10 minutes.
The room seems hotter now.
I can picture it again.
It hurts.
I grab the frosting.
I begin setting the counter with parchment paper.
My hands are clammy.
I grab the spoon, engorging it into the jar of frosting.
I begin getting anxious.
*ding*
