Cookie Days


I have replayed the images in my head over and over and over again. I am making your favorite sugar cookies (the ones I first made for Christmas, but you loved them so much), with messy nest hair, in the fresh morning with nothing but pajamas and an apron maybe. You have been to my Parisian apartment many times before, and you know I always keep an extra key underneath the flower pot.
Sneaking up to me unsuspecting, you hugged me from behind and buried your face in my nest that smelled of smoke and shampoo. You told me: good morning to my sweetest lover. You told me without formality, without improvisation. All smiles and no lies was what it was.
I turned around and kissed you, and you didn’t mind that I didn’t taste like mint like I’m supposed to in all those smint and tictac ads. You didn’t mind that I was still in my pajamas with my messy nest hair. I loved the way you took the cookie dough and munched on it thoughtfully, asking me if I wanted a cup of coffee, like it was your kitchen. But this is our house, I’d like to imagine, and this is our life we’re sharing together.
These are just fragments of the life we’ve shared together; shared together in only my head and my heart. Maybe you will laugh and avoid me for these thoughts I’ve been having. As much as you’d like to erase them maybe, I am keeping them underneath my sweater. Tucked away and safe inside, these are the memories of our cookie days.