Our kitchen became hers when
she moved in with us
after Grandpa died.
She taught me classic
peanut butter cookies—
how to crisscross the tops with sugared fork.
I watched knee-side as she made
cream pies, one after the other,
laying a blanket of raw pie crust in a tin,
poked with fork, baked, let cool,
and scooped full with mounds of creamy goodness
in rich dollops filling up the shell.
She shaved chocolate,
sprinkled toasted coconut,
layered thick meringue.
I wish I could look
into that kitchen window,
peering in from the backyard,
and see her strong capable hands,
her quick movements,
my eyes wide and hopeful,
youthful innocence and joy
sticking to my fingers
like sugar and cream.
Oh, for a quick taste
of memory—
like the window to a long-forgotten dream.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
Poetic Bloomings: Windows
