Page 67 of Taking It To Overtime

“Everything okay, honey?” My mom’s eyes search mine. “You seem sad.”

I shake my head, “I’m good, Mom. Promise. I’m just glad I get to spend time with you.”

My mother’s laugh has always been beautiful. Dad used to say that it was the first thing he noticed about her. His fraternity—yes, I know—was hosting a party, and he heard her laughing from somewhere in the house. He searched everywhere before he found her in the kitchen, laughing at a story being told by his best friend.

The next day he took Mom out on a date and his best friend had to stop by the on-campus health center with a broken nose.

I remember practicing Mom’s laugh in the mirror, trying to get the cadence just right. I never quite did. Instead, I snort like my dad.

Mom laughs now, that same musical sound, and I smile.

“Vera Aster, are you trying to butter me up?”

Maybe not intentionally, but now that she mentions it…

“Is it working enough to convince you to make waffles?” Besides the best laugh, Mom makes the best waffles in three states.

She smiles, patting the back of my hand. “Sure baby. Can you get out the waffle iron?”

Mom turns to the sink to wash her hands and I open a cabinet full of mixing bowls. We’ll need one of those too, so I pull it out and set it on the counter. I remember helping hold this blue and white Pyrex and folding in the eggs and milk with the ancient wooden spoon.

I open two other cabinets, and peek behind an old, red toaster, but I still can’t find the Belgian waffle iron.

Dad walks into the kitchen, stopping long enough to press a kiss to my temple.

“Hey bub, I have to drop something off at the post office, but I’ll be right back for breakfast.”

He looks older, too. Lines along his forehead and gray hair thinning where he’s combed it over the top of his head.

“I love you, Dad.” I close my eyes as I hug him back, feeling just like I did at ten, when a hug from my dad could cure anything and everything. He pats my back and shifts me out of his way to get to the door. “Hey Dad?” I ask as he puts his hand on the doorknob. “Any idea where Mom keeps the waffle iron?”

He frowns.

“Waffle iron? I think we gave that to the Jessup’s when we moved.” He shrugs. “We’re not really hosting big breakfasts anymore.” Unsaid is that I also don’t visit…ever… so there’s no need to make my old favorites.

“Yeah. Of course.” I nod. Mom must’ve forgotten where it went.

“Need me to swing by the and see if we can borrow one from the Oakes?”

I shake my head. “We’re good. Pancakes work for you?”

“Pretty sure there are chocolate chips in the cupboard and blueberries in the fridge.”

It’s not like my mother to forget something like the whereabouts of a trusty kitchen appliance, so I check a few more cabinets just to be safe, but Dad’s right.

“How about pancakes?” I ask my mom, and her brows tip together as she frowns.

“No, to waffles then?”

I’m not sure what to say to that. It feels weird to correct her. I may be a grown adult, but this is my mother.

“I think I’d prefer pancakes.”

We stare at each other, silent for a moment, and then she shakes her head, as if her thoughts are all jumbled. Then she smiles.

“Pancakes sound perfect.”

She hands me the flour and baking powder, and I open the fridge for milk and eggs. I slide them onto the Formica counter and scrape my hair back into a tiny ponytail. Mom is standing in front of one drawer, staring down at the measuring cups like she’s never seen them before.

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