A Sticky Situation

The back door at my daughter’s houses catches on the bottom. Push, and the top of the door leans into the laundry room while the bottom grips tightly to the threshold. I never remember the tricky door so I stumble in on the second shove.

I went in yesterday to find my daughter at the stove that has cooked up suppers for at least fifty years. My eight-month old joy sat in her diaper in the high chair several feet away from her Momma. Slices of a banana filled the tray in front of her. She saw me and I got what I came for, a great big banana-filled smile.

It is strange how the mind forgets the realities of relationship. I look at my daughter and I see her working down the ingredient list of a recipe she’s making for company.

“Here, Mom,” she comes at me with a tasting spoon. “Tastes a little flat, too creamy, don’t you think?”

“Yes, maybe a few more red pepper flakes. The taste is great at the beginning but falls flat at the end. Pepper seems to always come in on the backside. I’d add some more.”

She’s been married, keeping house for over two years. There sits my grandbaby but still my mind forgets her momma isn’t under my wing. My baby has her own wings, her own chick. Just like that door, my mind forgets. She has flown. I shove that reality to the front of my mind. I walk into now.

I get the baby out. She is banana sticky. We wipe her up and down. Her Momma directs me to the clothes.

“Put on the striped shirt and the striped panties.” She calls as she stirs the soup.

“No bath?” I wonder aloud.

I work little sticky hands and arms up little sleeves. Even her chubby little thighs hold the tacky remnants of banana.

I leave through the sticky door, the flavor of life hitting me on the backside.


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