- Last Record: 2012-08-13 14:27:37 -0700
- Joined: Aug 13, 2012
Click, clack, click.
The spoon bumped and twirled and swirled among the dough. Brown sugar and eggs and baking powder, oh what a joy. The man hummed a delightful little tune, his wrinkled fingers a bit slower than year's past, and the cracking was no longer just from the egg shells.
He carefully plopped each ball of sweet onto the (nearly as aged) baking sheet, stealing just a bit on his pinky to taste. He nearly expected to be slapped and rebuked, but with love and a gentle ease and a reminder of some sort of poisoning.
He heaved, bent low, nearly using all his strength as he closed the oven door. His fuzzy eyebrows, now white and powdery, rose high as he made his way to the long marble island. Long stems of green were flopped down, resting, and violet, ruby, and golden petals were soft beneath his touch. The flowers were the same as every year, grown high- high so, high, under his watch.
Gina, oh Gina. They were fuller yet under her own care.
He took the flowers, mindless to their touch, and sat heavily upon (her) his favorite seat. Her favorite song, subconscious, like a prayer upon his tongue. His eyes closed, her shape formed, his lips crackling as he grinned. Every year, not one missed yet, he made sure he knew of his love.
A ding of the stove, and he tried to leap up, but it was more of a stumble and a leaning. He misted forward, a basket covered in a red plaid towel, prepared to engulf the cookies.
"Maybe you should try a sugar-free substitute," his son said (as he did the year before, and still the year before) as he drove the old man to where he needed to be. "Those things are terrible for your health."
But ah, they weren't for him, were they?
Just minutes later, the man felt peace, and his heart warmed ever so. He touched the cold stone, so familiar to his fingers, and whispered 'Gina,' once more.
Her favorite flowers, her favorite sweets, was his present every year. She never complained, never said much of anything, but he knew, how he knew, she cared.
The dirt stained on the knees of his pants, as he struggled to kneel down to face her.
It might have been seven years, or maybe eight, but he never cared for living in the present. In the past, he knew her. In the future, he would be with her, once again, like before.