my mom, being the twenty first century Betty Crocker that she is, decided to bake maple bacon cookies. as I procrastinate my AP Euro notes and sip my iced coffee, the smell of the maple brings me back to our early mornings of pancakes and pillow fights. we were young and dumb and naïve, two restless souls in an unmoving city. the days were short and our nights long, infinitely intertwined in our mutual teenage disillusionment. you wore a blue button up that aligned with your marine eyes and i wore my red dress that made me feel like I was eight again, singing in my third grade Christmas concert . loving you was the adventure that I dreamt about as a child, clipping my sister’s bridal magazines and dreaming about the day when my prince would come.

except you weren’t my prince.

you were awkward, and so was i. your freckles were scattered throughout your olive skin, a constellation I could never fully understand. you didn’t come on a white horse, but a red pickup truck that i grew to love. you didn’t woo me with your words, i fell in love with you by the way you’d blink super fast trying not to cry when we got the news about nana or the way you played videogames with my little brother and let him win. i fell in love with you like our southern California sun – seeping into my pores and illuminating for the rest of the world to see.

but it’s december now and the sun has passed. as i return from this strange mirage, i must grasp my mind around the fact that you left. your laughter no longer fills the halls and your hand no longer strokes my hair like i once loved. no, it is only a maple cookie – sweet but easily crumbled.