Charred Cookies

By Lauren Oertel

I slumped in the chair, pushing

the stained cushion out to the edge.

I forgot to set the timer!

My mother called out. Smoke billowed from the oven.

She yanked out the baking sheet

with scattered burnt clumps and dropped it

onto the coil burners with a screech-bang.

I handed her a towel to flap

in front of the shrieking smoke alarm,

her apologies an orb that rolled off my back

and out the window behind me.

My mouth stretched into a tight smile

while I tried to think of when

she ever remembered to set the timer for the oven.

Growing up, fresh-baked cookies were a rare treat

in our house. My mother juggled work,

us kids, the general chaos of keeping up.

And yet she still tried. Mixed the dough,

formed it with loving hands.

I could have set the timer.