Dear You

Dear you, love you.
It’s been too long.
I am baking
oatmeal cookies.
I probably
made them for you
at least once, or
several times.
Don’t remember.
Probably. It’s
an old family
recipe, made
often. Comfort
food, with deep roots.
Feeling lazy,
I cook pizza-
pan cookies, one
giant soft plate-
sized indulgence
made of oil, eggs,
sugar, spice, and oats
smashed and flaked flat.
Impatient, I
slice them in large
wedges, each one
as big as three
normal cookies.
So, I’m baking
and crying, and
trying not to.
It’s now two weeks
and a half, or
eighteen days, or
yesterday, or
forever and
a day, a day.
A day shredded
from the inside
out, and rolled flat.