Restored lost archive. Originally posted July 31, 2007.
The flat-edged stainless steel of my kitchen knife moved over the slice of whole wheat bread, making shiny swirls of creamy peanut butter.
I was time traveling, a child in my mother's kitchen before the termites got into her head. Give her a bowl of butter cream frosting and a cake and she could create a masterpiece, layer by layer, her own flat-edged knife crafting smooth architectural sides, swirls and curlicues. She wielded it like an artist's brush.
Buck called out to me, "Want some milk with that peanut butter sandwich?"
Waked up. Awake. The sandwich tastes dry in my mouth. I can't drink enough milk to choke it down.
I do not bake cakes.
Current note (from May 17, 2010): I scanned the pre-digital era photos below into my hard drive recently. They were taken around 1987, a few years before Mother died. They are painful for me to look at, not only because of her condition: Alzheimer's and other health problems; but because I was totally wrapped up in my own life and did not participate in her care as I should have, or made her life more comfortable, as I could have. No excuses. Reality bites. This is for the record.