In a warm kitchen with no windows, we made dinner. My girl was standing on a plastic stool, as I guided her chubby hand, up and down, up and down, up and down. Onions in on the stove behind us, releasing their aroma. The exhaust fan whirred.
I showed Stella how to hold her hand, like this, up and down. No me do it! Careful, like this, see? Nooooo! Hold up here, two hands, so you don't catch your fingers. Della do it!!
Flecks of zucchini, pale green, verdant tips, littered the counter.
Standing next to my girl, I flash to my own awkward hand, holding a knife as my mother showed me how to scrape it across a measuring cup, flour, sprinkling, leaving a shadow on the counter.
They say scent frees memories buried deep. But movement too, delivers lived experience, brings them real again. A big hand holding a little one, careful. This way.