When Droplets Collide

Eight

The scorching heat of the pie tin against my fingers is so unbearable that I nearly lose my hold on it altogether.

Mom laughs from her spot against the doorway as she watches me juggle our creation from one palm to the next. I don't mind too much. This is the first time she's been carefree in a long time.

Most of the tendrils of her pale blonde hair have escaped from her messy bun to cascade down her shoulders and frame her face. Her laughter dies down when I place the tin down on the powdered marble counter and rush towards the sink, but the ghost of her tranquil smile remains.

“I told you it would be hot,” she reprimands, finally sobering up.
“And I told you to invest in oven mitts the last time I was here,” I reminded her with a playful scowl.
She flushed. “I've been really forgetful these days. I'm sorry, honey.”

No, mom. Don't apologise. Because it’s  you're not the one to blame. I am.

The guilt eats at me to the point where I barely manage a smile.
“It's okay. Even if you had the oven mitts, I probably would’ve still grabbed the pie with my bare hands.”
She walks over to give me a light tap on the back of my head. Speaking over my indignant cries, she says, “It's reckless actions like that that’ll ruin your artistic hands.”

I can feel my smile slipping as the memories return. I refuse to get lost in them and look her dead in the eye instead. “Mom, we've been over this. I'm not an artist anymore.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “What's the one thing I’ve always told you?”
“Don't end up like your father?”

I watch as any playfulness she has vanishes. She gives me a stern frown and a forlorn sigh. “Besides that.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Once an artist, always an artist.”
“Exactly,” she said with a proud smile. “I mean, look at what we just created.”

Following her gaze, I take in the flour covered countertop with the mess of eggshells, discarded meat fillings and empty pastry packets. The heaped yellow creation in the middle of all the destruction only enhances the sad, short tale of our attempt at baking a pie.

“Mom,” I say, my voice wavering against the laugh threatening to burst out of my lips, “I don’t think this is anything to be proud of. In fact, it just proves my point.”
“Oh, hush. Artistic hands created it, therefore it is art.”
“Very, very abstract art,” I mutter, earning a sharp jab to the side of my torso.

“How dare you insult our cooking?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be chefs,” I suggest, poking a finger at the meaty mess. “Isn’t the pastry supposed to be golden? I’m sure it should have turned golden by now.”
“How would you know If you’ve never even touched a pan in your life?”
“I have,” I protest with mock indignation, my hand flying to the spot above my heart. “I used to touch them all the time, washing away the aftermath of all the meals you used to make.”

She smiles warmly up at me as she recalls the details of the memory we both hold dear. “Well then in that case, next time you want to bake a pie, let me be in charge like I suggested. Then the crust will be golden and the filling wont have the consistency of spoiled goo.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for a cleaning rag. “Oh, don’t worry, mom. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle as she lets out a little giggle. She reaches out to ruffle my hair, and I have to restrain myself from flinching away at the affection I don’t deserve from her. My smile slips a little, but hers doesn’t waver. Not even when she diverts her attention away from me to grab a thick cloth from the cleaner part of the counter.

I watch as she circles around me to get plates and bottled beverages from the fridge. Her arms already overloaded with items, she wraps the cloth over her hand and extends it towards the round metallic tin. My amusement, which had been gradually increasing with each item added to the pile in her arms, finally burst forth as I let out an involuntary laugh.