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The Feeler

He wanted to help in the kitchen. But not just help. Helping wasn’t enough.

He wanted to “feel,” he said, “what it was like to cook.” He gripped the counter with passion, his fingers turning purple on top. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”


And so we did. We turned the kitchen inside out with oatmeal and butter. Until we had something resembling cookies and a life-long aspiration fulfilled.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “How’d that feel, bud? To cook?”

Only he shrugged. He looked away. “I’ve already made cookies before,” he said. “I just,” he opened his palms to explain, “I just wanted to make eggs.”

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