Xbox, cooking, Cleaning

It was a rainy afternoon, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and rotting oak leaves that had crept in from the small garden. Droplets slid across the windowpane, like invisible fingers trying to get in. Inside, the warmth of the wood stove mingled with the scent of cinnamon, fresh rosemary, and rising dough; a thick aroma that curled around one’s throat and warmed the [heart.

In the kitchen, Lara was wearing a white floral apron tied around her waist and pulled over her dark jeans. Her blond hair was tied back with a wooden barrette, but a few stray strands danced around her gleaming white neck, glistening with every movement. Her hands were buried in the bread dough; the soft, sticky dough swallowed her fingers, making a soft, wet sound with every push. The smell of hot yeast rose from the bowl, mingling with the steam from the pot of veal—meat simmering gently in its own broth, with orange carrot pieces that sat like jewels in the water.

Lara stirred with a wooden spoon; the spoon tapped against the side of the pot, and the sound of “tock...tock...” echoed through the kitchen. Sweat beaded on her forehead, not from exhaustion but from the heat of the stove. Her smile was soft, her blue eyes sparkling as she lifted her head and saw James from behind the counter.

James was sprawled on the couch, under a brown wool blanket; only his head and slender shoulders were exposed. His teddy bear sweatshirt was slightly raised, and the white skin of his stomach shone like the moon in the dim light of the television. Her legs were tucked under the blanket, but her toes occasionally poked out of the edge of the blanket, wiggling to the rhythm of the game music. The Xbox controller was in her small hands; her fingers danced on the buttons, and every time her car jumped, she gasped and then burst out laughing. The sound of cartoon engines, screeching tires, and the game’s cheerful music rolled through the house like waves.

Lara wiped her hand on a towel hanging on the wall—a towel that smelled of lavender soap—and went out into the hallway. She turned on the vacuum cleaner; its roar mingled with the sound of the rain. With each movement, dust rose from under the sofas, and the smell of old wood and carpet wool filled her nostrils. Lara bent down, reached under the couch, and pulled out one of James’s wool socks—a fox-patterned sock that was still warm. She smiled, tossed it in the laundry basket, and went back to work.

In the bathroom, she emptied the trash can; the sound of plastic in the metal bin was sharp. Then she went back to the kitchen, put the dough on a floured wooden board. She pressed it with her palm; the dough spread out under her hand, making a soft “puff” sound, and the smell of fresh wheat rose. Her fingers dug into the dough, their short, clean nails white with flour. Sometimes she would look up, and through the frosted glass in the kitchen door, she would see James’ shadow on the couch—a small, carefree shadow that punched the air with every game he won.

Lara shaped the bread into a round, drew lines on it with her fingertips, and placed it on the baking sheet. She opened the oven door; A wave of heat hit her face, the smell of hot dough and melted butter filled the air. She set the timer for 25 minutes, then went to the window. She wiped the glass with a damp cloth; the raindrops slid down the glass, becoming clearer with each stroke of the cloth. The smell of rain, the smell of dirt, the smell of life—it was all in the house.

James shouted from the couch, “Auntie! My car crashed again!”

Lara laughed, her laughter ringing like a bell in the house. She wiped her floury hands on the towel, ran over to him, and sat on the edge of the couch. She took the controls, quickly turned the car back on course, and then pulled James into her arms. Her hair fell over James’s face, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafted from her skin. James breathed into Lara’s neck, her body soft and warm. Lara reached under James’s sweatshirt, caressed the skin of his back, and whispered, “Auntie’s going to check on the bread now, you play, little one.”

And she returned to the kitchen—lightly, with a smile that didn’t go away. The house was clean, lunch was on the way, and James was playing in his own world, safe and warm. The rain was still falling, but inside, everything was alive; full of smells, full of sounds, full of care.