Gingerbread mothers know we will be consumed by our children. Bite by bite, we teach them gratitude. We teach them that treasures take time: homes, stories, relationships. We teach them to run.
She is always ready to run.
“I never mean to hurt you,” she says, her voice shaking. “Never.”
Already useless, I break it off below the bitten ankle and hand it to her to devour in two impossible bites.
I hug her close, and as she bites my shoulder, I tell her, “I always find ways to fill in the missing bits.”
