The smell of sugar and butter rises up from the mixer, and a more than FAINT whiff of vanilla brings back a flood of memories. How many times have I made these, building up a MOUND of dough, ready to scoop up and fill cookie sheets? As they bake, I watch the pale spoonfuls turn a golden BLOND color. You come into the kitchen anticipation written all over your face, ready to savor the crunch of the edge and the contrasting soft centers, and hot melted chocolate chips. We are like children with after-school snacks, gleeful with our glasses of cold milk and sugar crusted lips.

Georg’ann

This evening while moving from room to room,
a small pile of fallen WHITE orchid blossoms
caught my attention.
I’m not sure when they fell,
though long enough to dry
into something like rice paper cranes.
Delicate. In my hand.
As it started to close over them
the slightest crinkle SOUND.
Opening, my fingers unfurling,
I let them fall again.
Strewn across the dark wood shelf,
tissue birds of peace nestled
between the soft fern FROND
and the photo of the BLONDE little girl
reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s
How To Love.

Heather