Pancakes

Flour. Oil. Eggs. Milk.

I remember that sunny Saturday morning. I was eight years old, and I picked out my favorite multicolored striped dress just for Mommy's birthday. Sunlight was pouring through the kitchen window as Daddy brought Simon and me downstairs to help him make his special cinnamon apple pancakes. The light was making the dark mahogany cabinets even darker, and the silver faucet in the sink gleam. I was finally tall enough to reach over the counter, so Daddy let me measure out the four cups of flour in a bright orange measuring cup, and dump it clumsily into a large white mixing bowl. No matter how much fluffy, white, powder covered the granite counter tops, Daddy always smiled as if I was doing the best job in the world. Simon was in charge of cracking the eggs and dumping the goopy suns in the messy mixture while Daddy was always the stirrer. As soon as Daddy clicked on the ice blue flame from the gas stove I knew the waft of cinnamon was about to dance through the air, and then Mommy would know that we were making something special. Daddy poured the mix into a big black skillet, like the moon setting in the night sky. He cooked one side, and then the other. Before we all knew it we had three perfectly stacked golden-brown pancakes, topped with a white square of butter and drizzled syrup. Simon brought out the fancy silver tray for me to put the plate of pancakes on. Simon poured her a side of orange juice while Daddy topped it all of with a rose and a card signed by all of us. We walked up the stairs in anticipation. Slow, sneaky movements so that Mommy would be surprised. I will never forget Daddy opening the door and the world feeling like it was moving in slow motion as he dropped the fancy silver tray and went to Mommy's side. As Simon and I entered the bedroom we saw Mommy face down in a bright scarlet pool of her own blood. There was a rock in my throat and suddenly I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. Daddy turned her limp body over like a rag doll and examined the angry gash in her head. Tiny white bubbles were spewing from her mouth, and at that moment I realized Daddy's rose would soon be put on a large, grey tombstone.