You left that tin of recipe cards on the counter before you went to the hospital. I couldn't touch them for months.
Today I finally opened it. Your mother's cornbread card was the worst stained — butter, maybe, or honey. Thirty years of your thumbprints in the crease.
I read the whole thing out loud. 'One cup cornmeal, one cup flour...' The home health aide was changing my sheets in the next room. She pretended not to hear.
I didn't even own a mixing bowl. Had to borrow an extension cord from the neighbor to run the old hand mixer. He didn't ask why.
The cornbread came out lopsided and too salty. I ate the whole pan anyway. You'd have said 'needs more sugar.'
That card goes back in the tin tonight. But I'm getting my own bowl tomorrow.