"Nothing is sacred at our house"
My mother hides chocolate chip cookies
in the freezer, her hidden cache
for snowy weekends
and long trips to the city.
She thinks no one knows
they are there ostensibly hidden
where no one can find them.
She even locks the freezer
and hides the long, thin key.
Little does she know
that we know
the key’s secret hiding place
beneath the charcoal lighter fluid
lying in open sight inside the porch,
next to the freezer, just to the left.
Our small hands borrow cookies,
some frozen from last week’s batch
and some still warm
from this morning baking,
now carefully stashed in plastic bags
and Tupperware containers.
The cookies disappear
much like the potato chips,
thin slices of cake,
and marshmallows did last month.
Sometimes she asks us why
we do not eat much
breakfast or lunch or dinner.
We look at each other,
knowing our frozen chocolate chip cookies
thaw beneath our beds
and patiently wait for us.
Little does she know
that we know
the key’s secret hiding place
beneath the charcoal lighter fluid
lying in open sight inside the porch,
next to the freezer, just to the left.
Our small hands borrow cookies,
some frozen from last week’s batch
and some still warm
from this morning baking,
now carefully stashed in plastic bags
and Tupperware containers.
The cookies disappear
much like the potato chips,
thin slices of cake,
and marshmallows did last month.
Sometimes she asks us why
we do not eat much
breakfast or lunch or dinner.
We look at each other,
knowing our frozen chocolate chip cookies
thaw beneath our beds
and patiently wait for us.
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