Panorama

leave in oven for 20 minutes

I remember the cold laminate floor.

I remember feeling alone.

I remember not being tall enough to reach the fridge door when I was hungry.

I remember the cabinet doors creaking from rusty hinges and chipping paint. Dusty pans were stacked on the bottom half, while cups were on the top. I remember being amazed by these animated shiny figures that would do as I do, stare as I stared: my reflection I then comprehended. It was there, in the kitchen, I would find myself. I could scrounge through these unlocked doors for hours. Each wooden cabinet would hold little treasures that I cared for affectionately. They were as lonely as I was.

One cabinet held sealed phenomenas. They were jars I realized. I pronounced the word with my lips.

j-a-r-s.

They were half filled with contents unimaginable. I wanted to see. I wanted to feel what was inside. I picked the first one that caught my eye. It was white. It looked thin, it looked bland. But I didn't care. It looked like a cloud captured just for me. It was my little fluff. They were locked, sealed by latches that my little hands couldn't open. I couldn't grasp my inability to open them by myself. I wouldn't let my weakness keep me from this delight.

I remember sitting on the unkempt floor with a full diaper and the jar in front of me. I whined. I kicked. And finally it fell. Little fragments of glass were now scattered on the floor. But it wasn't the glass that hurt. It was the hard smack on the cheek minutes later that did.

"Stupid child, don't play with that." she said.

I remember the soft light feeling of the fluff on my hands as I wobbled to my room.

I remember realizing that it wasn't the floor that was cold in the beginning, just my forgetful mother.

I remember thinking one day me and my new friend, who I later learned was named flour, would encounter once again. We would create magical things I said. We will create warm things.