I want to do it, she says at each step

of the recipe, and I try to let her

even if it means broken eggs on the counter,

too much salt, and too little flour.

She splays the dough onto the cookie sheet,

using the wooden spoon as if it’s a combination

snow shovel and mallet.  When she turns away,

I try to perform a kind of cookie triage,

finding those blobs with a chance at survival

and nudging them into a vague roundness.

After they’re finished, she holds one aloft

like a medal and tells her mother,

I did these all by myself, right Daddy?

I nod, saying nothing, and, for the first time,

wonder how many of my own victories

were smoothed into shape behind my back.

From Love and Other Collisions (Press 53, 2010).
Used with the author's permission.