November 2026 "Warmth" by Uly Ochoa

It is ten thirty in the morning.

I take the sieve from the kitchen drawer.

The handle feels familiar to my fingers and palm

I am reminded of the other times I've used my skills

for the various people I hold dearly.

Flour, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice

fall through the holes of sieve and into a metal mix bowl.

The mixture merges with butter, sugar, eggs, and pumpkin.

I hear mom on the phone talking to my brother in Spanish as

I am chopping bars of dark chocolate to pour into my dough.

My siblings might be a little late, which gives me

all the more time to savor the ritual of baking.

I fold everything with each other and place the bowl

in the fridge while I vacuum and clean the living room.

I make sure every cushion is at its right place

and there is no trash on the carpet for

the children to so eagerly pick up.

Hours later my cookie scoop is dragged through the chilled

dough as I hear the commotion of family arriving.

Twenty minutes later the kitchen is filled with

the scents of fall spices as the cookies rest on a rack.

They join fried turkey, crab pasta salad, chicken stuffing,

pork tamales, and several pies on the table we use for every family gathering.

We eat together, passing food, laughter, remembrances,

dreams, and good blessings with one another.

When the festivities are over, the turkey is plucked, the sides

have vanished, and the desserts depleted.

I put away what is left by transferring the remaining portions

into containers and take them to the fridge.

Before one of my siblings leaves, I see my niece with arms raised,

waiting for me to lift her up, so she can rest her head on my shoulder.