Growing up, Louisiana summers meant Minnie
guarding the door, the buttery smell of Coppertone
permeating from her flour-speckled apron
as she dabbed the tips of our noses and
ears with the thick, sticky whiteness.

We scampered past her, protesting
“Aw, come on, Minnie! Do you want
us to be pale as ghosts forever?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Minnie would retort with a soft laugh,
“That’s exactly what I want.”

The day I packed up our silver car to begin
the long trek toward a place of higher education,
Minnie had been bustling all day long in the
kitchen, baking my favorites: peach crumble,
two dozen pralines and a whole caramel cake.
She walked out of the kitchen at half past four
and wiped her hair from her face, leaving a streak
of flour and butter across her forehead.

I wrapped my long arms around her middle,
clenching my fingers tightly together at her back
and burying my head in the soft folds of her apron.
She rested her chin on my hair as I listened to her
breathe in and out, in and out, real slow.

“Minnie,” I whispered, keeping my cheek pressed firmly against her.
“Yeah, honey?” she cooed. I swallowed my breath
as I gazed at the front door and remembered the sun
beating down on its white wood all those summers ago.
“Minnie,” I said again, my voice rocking back and
forth between childhood and adolescence

as I pictured an empty room with four white-washed walls
and a springy mattress one thousand three hundred miles away.
“Minnie,” I croaked, but she hushed me with
her soft, vanilla voice and stroked my hair
“Don’t worry, honey,” she said, “I know, I already know.”