The kitchen smelled of
yeast and warm sugar.
She rolled the dough with
her mother's wooden pin,
pressing down until her
knuckles ached. Outside,
rain tapped against the
window like impatient
fingers.
Her mother stood at the
stove, stirring a pot of
jam, humming a tune
she'd heard a thousand
times. The air was thick
with steam and the clink
of spoons against
ceramic. She reached
over, brushing flour from
her mother's sleeve, and
her mother paused
mid-stir.
Neither spoke. The jam
bubbled. Her mother
turned, held out a
spoonful, and waited.
She leaned in, tasting
the sweetness that clung
to the edge of the
spoon. Her mother's hand
rested on her shoulder,
warm and solid, squeezing
once before letting go.
The dough would rise by morning, but the hug had already settled.