I fixed cinnamon rolls on Saturday morning for the first time since before Christmas. In fact, only a few weeks ago did I throw away the remaining Pillsbury tubes that lingered from 2010.
(My refrigerator is a veritable scavenger hunt.)
Our family once enjoyed cinnamon rolls on a weekly basis, every Sunday morning. I put them in the oven, and Robb frosted them after they finished baking; I did the before and he did the after. The eight rolls divided evenly among the four of us: three for Robb, two for me, and 1.5 for each of the boys.
I could hear him in my head, nearly feel his presence at the kitchen counter. He was a master at frosting cinnamon rolls - he turned it into a careful science of temperature, consistency, and balance on top of the roll. He believed strongly in his technique.
It's been a while since I've done something for the first time, encountered that bitter taste of fresh remembering.
I frosted them like a novice, and I served them up on three paper plates.
There were three cinnamon rolls left in the pan.
3 comments:
It sounds as if some holy communion occurred as you took this step of first-ness.
I've read your journey for months. I came through a link that noted your tragedy and asked for prayer. I'm a grief vet myself. 10/16/96 is when I watched my firstborn son breath his last. I recognize that grief for a spouse and grief for a son has differences, but it is often the sameness of grief in your writing that even 15 years later leaves me without breath. An undefinable ache defined.
Why comment now? Because we eat cinnamon rolls every Sunday morning too. Sameness. Difference. It was a meaningless connection, but I chose not to ignore what it means.
Bless you girl! Thank you for offering your blog to read. I am enjoying your words <3
Holly
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