Deja vu

As I dig at the stale brownie remnants stuck in the corner of the dish, an unsettling ghost rises like deja vu.  Back in my childhood home, I had a stomach of anxiety. Fear followed me like a dark and knowing shadow.  In the unlit night, in those traitorous years, I would try to enjoy the small bits of sweetness that strung sparsely across time.

My aproned mother with well-weathered hands stirring the rich shade of cocoa.  Wooden spoon guiding the thick batter from side-to-side, smearing thick chocolate up the sides of the glass bowl.  Scraping the sides with a silicone spatula, batter pouring slowing into a dish like the one before me now.  Bake at 350 and savor the sweetened tongue of a sickening teenage sweet tooth.  He stared at my mouth with every overindulgent bite of the warm brownie that ended up souring in my stomach.