It feels like one of those quiet afternoons in July that drip molasses and honey from rustic windowsills of brick and barrel. Breadcrumb trails and leftover cheese line the crevices like pixie dust and pirate hooks. My hair is sticking to my balmy lips; a light wind cradles the vineyard hills – a mother and a womb of grapes of purple and black.
Gulls fly overhead, chirps that sing over Victorian rooftops and ride the wind to seaside docks. High tide waves and turtle migrations. Empty shells and eternal sands. How passionate they are, to make love to to the rocks and foam and fog. Creation in the name of God. I roam past the daffodils and the cooing fountains. Narcissus’ flowers. Narcissus’ reflection. Nostalgic and timeless, like bottle rockets and paper airplanes nesting on power lines.
She is a goddess of motherhood and soothes like tender chamomile. She molds my Play-Doh dreams into brick houses that arch to the sky. And with her hand holding mine, we build bridges of full lives of coral and copper sands, where she teaches me of womanhood and wild independence like only the fiercest mother can.
Papa’s house always smelled of pancake batter. Pancakes and orange and vanilla musk from his aftershave. The warm haze of the stove’s steam left me an eager five-year-old, awaiting the sound of the spatula’s spin and the sizzle of butter and cooking oil. Nothing else could beat the privilege he always gave me of topping each pancake with six chocolate chips. In all of his cooking perfection, he always managed to maintain the texture of the chocolate, so that the chips would melt on my tongue rather than in the cushion of pan-heated batter.