My bedroom door reveals a sliver of light. I know my mother is making fresh biscuits - the clacking of the flour sifter, her fork against the metal bowl, a tray clattering against the oven rack… The aroma is heavenly, and I wonder how I can smell them before they’ve even had a chance to bake.

I hear my brother, the usually sullen one, chattering incessantly about the mess of iron scrap and wood he is transforming into a vehicle. I smile; remembering the rush of wind against my face, the exhilaration of the ride, my head too heavy with the enormous helmet my mother has made me wear though the lawn mower engine of my brother’s go-cart couldn’t possibly propel us into real danger.

Back in the kitchen, I feel her fuzzy bathrobe against my face, thick and soft with its seasoned fur, smelling of flour and bath powder. I hug eagerly, reaching high to find her waist, pressing my face against the soft belly that still comforts.

“It’s too early for little girls to be out of bed,” she whispers, gently scolding.

My brother, the usually boisterous one, blinks sleep from his eyes and scowls as he shoves an unopened textbook into his otherwise empty bag. He sits heavily in the chair at the end of the table. Even I, the favored little sister, can’t bring a smile to his usually animated face at this hour of the morning.

My sister serenely putters about the kitchen, a second mother, pulling hot biscuits from the basket and buttering one for each of us. I climb into my seat, still a high chair, between my brothers, wishing I were grown up enough to be welcomed into this morning bustle of activity. The usually sullen one passes me a biscuit though my mother urges, once again, that I return to bed.

The sliver of light grows suddenly harsh. I flinch. I am grabbing for my mother’s robes, the feel of her thin legs beneath the fuzzy covering. I burrow deeper beneath my blankets, wanting to hold on to this memory of her. Remembering when she was larger than life. But she is gone now, nearly six years since her passing.

For a moment, my heart aches for childhood’s morning.

Small voices bubble in through the door now filled with light. I pull myself from my warm cocoon, tucking the smell of baking biscuits beneath my pillow. Faces—sullen, boisterous, serene—fade across the miles and then appear again in the dawn of this new day.

I make my way toward the kitchen. I am met with hugs, arms reaching high for my waist, faces burrowed against my soft belly.

“It’s too early,” I softly scold. “It’s too early for little children to be out of bed.”

And I smile... The scent of fresh-baked biscuits still lingers in the air.

©2004 Tracy Million Simmons

Return to Directory of "Essays"