A morning's word

Memories of a warm kitchen
sweating through layers of flour.
Memories of burned little fingers
baking two billion cookies an hour.

I remember the owies and squishes
the dropped pans and sweat on my nose
I remember the smells and the wishes
the bitching, the stepped upon toes.

I remember cookies too black to eat
I remember ones too raw to cool
I remember the cookies that fell to the floor
I remember dough used in a duel.

But if you asked me about those that were eaten
I'm afraid I'd have nary a reply
The memories were all in the making
and in the batches that made me cry.

It does not disturb me, this memory gap
wherein all the good tasting cookies fell.
It was the warmth, the family, the time well spent
and the lessons that were learned, as well.

The memories were all in the making
in the trials, in the sweat, in the heat.
The memories were burnt into the bad ones
the ones that you couldn't even eat.