Hot, warm cookies,
Chocolate chip.
In the oven.
The smell fills the house;
Warmth, happiness,
Light,
In the oven.

Made with care, like so
Many things.
A pinch of this
A dash of that.
Just the amounts to make it perfect,
But not…

What is perfection?
In happiness,
In memories,
Does it exist?
Can it exist?
Does it matter?
Can it?

Hot, warm cookies,
Chocolate chip,
Out of the oven now.
Sticky sweet,
Snuck off the tray while
Mom’s back is turned.
Burnt fingers and burnt
Tongues.
But they taste so good when they
Shouldn’t be eaten!

The oven is cold now,
The cookies are
Dust,
Gone.
But the smell remains,
Here.
There.
In.
But not out.

I lay on my back,
Cold, sweet grass.
Sunlight,
Streaming though cotton balls in the sky, white and light
Now.
Warmth on my skin,
My face.
A reminder of
Chocolate cookie.

I walk, quickly
Between the raindrops.
Drip drop,
Landing on me,
My tongue.
Sweet, like sugar water,
Like nectar,
Like chocolate cookie.

The rain,
Now gone,
Pools on the ground.
Splish splash.
Jumping in puddles,
Squish Squash.
Brown mud,
Between my toes,
Sticky and warm,
Like chocolate cookie.

Secretly, I
Kept one.
One cookie.
A piece of a memory,
Better than a
Photograph.
Dusty in an album.
There is still a faint scent of chocolate in it, and warmth from the oven.
Maybe the cookies will come out of the hot, warm oven
Again.

Until then…
I have the cookie.
That’s enough.
I hold the cookie.
That’s enough.