Cornbread Mornings

On the rare stormy days we had in Southern California, where the sky darkened and the rain poured and the streets flooded with water, my mom and I would have a cozy day in. This weather made us come alive with excitement. She’d make cornbread for breakfast, topped with melted butter and syrup. I remember always trying to sneak an extra piece in when she left the kitchen. It was just too tempting. Too comforting. She’d turn the fireplace on, nestle herself next to its warmth, and sip her cup of green tea. I’d flop on the couch with my breakfast plate, a blanket over my legs, wondering what we’d watch. We’d pick out a movie and spend the afternoon cuddled together, slowly moving through the day.

Today is a cozy day in Alaska. It’s drizzling outside. The fireplace is on. We’ve warmed up leftover cornbread for breakfast—with melted butter and syrup. Perhaps I’ll sneak a second piece. My son is napping quietly upstairs. My legs are safely tucked under a blanket as I watch TV with my husband, sipping my coffee. Soon Forrest will get up and the three of us will spend the afternoon cuddled up together, slowly moving through the day.

Twenty years later and I’m inadvertently recreating moments and experiencing memories that were long tucked away. I’m struck by how wild this life can be.