Peace Offering

One day, you’ll wake up more stressed than you should be. You will wake up next to him and immediately notice how the skin around your eyes is stretched. Dry and swollen. You go to the window in front of the sink, bathrobe wrapping tight around your hips. You will feel the craving for touch and warmth, your body rejecting the gauzy cloth. The light from the faint morning will spill through the glass, and you will think of how you often found your mother in this exact position. Alone in the kitchen with all the lights off. You miss her and think of the pancakes she would always make those extra quiet mornings. 

You will hold your tongue when he walks in. The floorboards creaking, he will mumble, “Hello,” like something horrible happened. It wasn’t horrible, you’ll think. It was barely a fight. You will want to feel different, the blood in your veins will start to move faster. You will walk away. A chance missed to redeem, to relay. You will want to make cookies. 

Rampant, unending cortisol will make your brain thirst for sugar as though it’s been parched from a nasty drought. Fumbling through your closet. So deep inside the folds of childhood photos and meticulously hoarded pieces of useless, precious memories that you almost won’t find it. But then you will, and with a sigh of relief and a pang of guilty realization, you will begin to make cookies. 

His breathing will be quiet as he walks away from you, leaving the kitchen open, empty. Wounded. You will look away, not meeting his eyes. Your desperate attempt to control, but there is no console, no wheel to grasp tightly. You’ll reach for a baking sheet and place it on the counter. Preheat 375 degrees. Did he ever even tell you what his favorite number is? What floor his first apartment sat on? Did you even ask?

Coat the pan with butter. You’ll cover your fingers with waxy grease. “You’re so slippery,” he had said the night before. “I want to know more about you.” You will start a staring contest with the dark since you won’t look him in the eye. What would even be worth talking about? 

Get a bowl. 1 cup brown sugar, 1 cup white sugar. You’ll feel desperate. It wasn’t enough for him. He had you. What else could he need? 1 cup unsalted butter. Use the whisk with the broken handle, the one from the night your roommate stormed away for good. Mash the ingredients together; you will rethink using the unsoftened butter, resistant to change and union. The slam of the door. The burning shame as you remember her voice and how angry she was. How little you could control. How little you truly knew. Cream the butter and sugar. Beat out the anger you feel in your lonely body. He held you after and asked if you were alright. You said nothing. Speaking in breaths, you will let out a weak sigh. 2 teaspoons vanilla extract. Watch the mixture swirl and change color. Collapsing into a silent mess in his arms whenever possible. 

2 eggs. He made them scrambled the first morning you spent with him. 2 large eggs. You won’t be able to remember if the shells were white or brown, if they had speckles and were from his mother’s farm or not. You will purse your lips and inhale loudly. Crack the eggs and wash your hands. Or you will forget and wipe the residue on your apron or pant legs. It was always like you to be so messy anyway. Flour-stained pants and ruined t-shirts. Missed opportunities and things left unsaid.

Get a second bowl. 3 cups flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, ½ teaspoon baking soda, 1 teaspoon salt. Spoon out the flour into the measuring cup. Your mother would see you in this state and feel the same guilt you will understand later. Flour packs too tightly if you stick the measuring cup directly into the package. “Much too meticulous,” she would chime in. Her hands on her hips, faltering with disapproval at the way you handle things. Mix with a fork. You’ll realize the discomfort is only organ-deep. Something you can suffer through like a quick, forgettable chronic illness. Or you can stick your hands into both your hearts, stomachs, and intestines and find the aching parasite. 

Remember to not overmix anything. Aggression will not be conducive to creating a hospitable environment. You will add an extra pinch of salt and think about how your parents stared silently at each other until one dared to leave the room. How your intentions were considered poor judgement and your voice was somehow so much quieter than the television. 

Fold in the chocolate chips. You will remind yourself that imperfection isn’t the comet that killed the dinosaurs. Your skin will only wrinkle more, time will move, and he will not smile from your conversations if you plant weeds in his gardens. If you withhold the manure and hope to live off saved rainwater alone. Do flowers grow well in your garden if you never tend to them? If they do, can you call them your flowers?

Roll the dough into small balls and think about the way you could have shown him the parts of you that you hide behind old curtains. 12 cookies per sheet. 10 minutes per pan. You’ll wonder why you’re still so secretive, hiding your inability to connect behind making things and hoping he will forget.

You will feel a pounding in your empty stomach, but you will walk toward him. Your children will be happier when they see you speak in the future. After they’ve been conceived and born, bred and raised. You will say, “I’m sorry. I want to be known by you.” 

Steps taken, recipes written and unwritten and rewritten. The oven will beep, filling the room with unbearable mechanical wailing. “I have more to share with you, too,” you will say, turning your back to him. You will wait until they are cool to the touch, and you will eat with him.