I come back from work, worn out and spent. Each night, I wake up mid-sleep, as if I had never gone to bed.
I walk to the kitchen and start pulling out cans and jars. My eyes don’t even have to see where my hands are going anymore, I remember what bottle lies on which stack just as I know the alphabet.
I follow your recipe to the dot.
The same amount of flour, a cup full of sugar, little chips of chocolate hidden amidst the dough like gems in sand.
But I could never bake them like you did. So by the time I finish, the house starts to feel very empty again, without you and your sweet-smelling cookie dough.