Chocolate Brownies

My mother always made brownies the day after it happened. It was the only time she baked, her way of apologizing, I guess.

She refilled a container with them as we stepped over the crate of empty bottles, wine stain on the carpet, my smashed ceramic bear in a pile, family photo still ripped. At the park, we played on the swings, scrambled up climbing frames, gripped monkey bars, bounced on the seesaw, then ate gooey chocolate richness and guzzled lemonade.

For several days after, life was almost good until I realized she had stocked up on cocoa powder again.