The Smell of Baking

Arms painted white with flour. Apples bubbling bitter in a pan.
Mammy smiled, ‘want to help me?’
Of course I did. I loved to rub my hands through that silky mixture,
feel the crumbs thicken beneath my finger nails,
cold butter surrendering to my hot pressing thumbs.

We’d peel apples whole so I could throw the skins behind me
and uncover the initials of who I’d marry.
I rolled pastry on the old butter-stained table.
‘Doesn’t matter if it’s torn,’ she’d say, ‘we can patch it.’
‘Yours is better than mine,’ Mammy peered over her teacup,
and I believed her, every time.

Mine never won prizes for looking good,
but Mammy beamed, mouth full.
Before I knew it, I was making apple pies,
without her.