Rotations by Jessica Trujillo
The last time I saw you, we gathered at the table – plain, round, wooden. Grandchildren
wielded crayons. Imaginations impressed turkeys and snowflakes on paper displayed on kitchen
walls. Leaves stretched the table, accommodating aunts and an accumulation of ghosts – dead
fathers, expired dreams, the old ways. Grandpa recounted stories to rapt cousins.
Flour sprinkled the table. Your deft hands and your grandmother’s wooden rolling pin
sculpted pie dough. A disc of cold pastry, with careful rotations, became a jagged edged circle.
You draped butter-speckled dough over the pan – deep, metal, dull with the patina of past pies.
Apples met your knife, becoming thick tranches coated with sugar, cinnamon, and lemon.
A flower shaped vent and coarse sugar decorated the top crust, pressed gently over the filling.
The bouquet of cooking apples permeated the room. The dough transformed through heat into
crust, past solidifying into future.
The last time I saw you, I worried it would be the last time I saw you. I stayed as long as I
could, soaking up, in silence, the skills you taught me before life called me back.
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The table arrives with too many chairs for myself and one cat. Nieces and cousins wield
scissors. Merriment shapes paper turkeys and snowflakes to adorn the kitchen. Leaves stretch the
table, accommodating friends. Puzzled spirits drift away making room for new ones – lost loves,
altered memories, forgotten knowledge. Neighbors share gossip and discuss books.
Flour sprinkles the table. My pastry-school-trained hands and great-times-two
grandmother’s rolling pin sculpt short crust. A cold disc of pastry, with careful rotations,
becomes a delicate circle. I drape buttery sweet dough over a tart ring – shallow, metal, shiny.
Apples meet my knife, becoming thin slices coated with sugar, cardamom, and orange. I
cook, cool, arrange layers resembling a rose. A sweet-spiced scent permeates the room. Apple
leavings transform through heat into caramel, a primordial syrup to preserve.
The last time I see you, sitting in an empty chair, you stay as long as you can before the
past pulls you away from the table for the last time.