My most unforgettable memories as a child always took place during the holiday season. My mom went all out every year; she made sure Christmas for me and my siblings was the magical experience she never got to live through as a child. Bright mismatched lights hung above doorways, intertwined around stair railings, taped in wherever they could fit. Ornaments meticulously placed on every inch of the tree that was older than me and stood over six feet tall. An old train on its track ran around the tree's deep crimson red skirt at its base. Glimmering glittery ribbons and garland were strung and wrapped on the railings of the staircases as the chime of an antique magnetic music box rang through the air. The house became a spectacle, a wonderland.

Every year my mom baked Christmas cookies, an entire bucket full. My favorite part was helping her make them. The scent of almond flour extract and nutmeg was comforting, as it is now. There’s one specific memory that sticks with me to this day; the smell of nutmeg and almond extract is enough to take me right back. I remember being about six and overjoyed, dying to get started. My mother wasted no time, opened the cabinets, and reached for the old scratched and dented metal bowl we used for everything from dahl to brownie batter to birthday cakes. Though it had long lost its pristine gleam, it was the signature bowl. She took it down and placed it on the hard, sandy counter. The one with Sharpie stains and marker streaks was created by me and my brother.

While I stood on a chair from our old wooden table set, too short to reach the bowl without it, she gathered all the ingredients from the pantry and fridge. When she had finally got them all and laid them out on the counter, we started with the dry ingredients. Even though I’d make a large mess all over the counter, an avalanche of flour, she let me pour it despite her OCD. And so I did, spilling it all over the once sandy and stained counter, now white. We continued making the dough, the mess growing. After it had sat and cooled for a little, we used cookie cutters in the odd shape of a Christmas tree. Some came out as blobs rather than trees after being baked, but she didn’t care. And neither did I; I was just happy to be baking with her.

Although we haven't made the cookies in a few years, it was one of my favorite things to do as a child. She doesn’t know it, but these memories are some of my dearest. As I grow up, I begin to realize that without her dedication and care I have no memories and no childhood. Without the fun and the experiences she went out of her way to create for me, I have nothing.
To this very day I love baking by myself, especially during the holidays. Every time I do, I feel closer to her. I can feel her warm embrace, holding me when I was sick as a small child. Curling up into her, hiding in her bed when the thunder rang too loud, reverberating in my bones. It’s a kiss on the cheek, a hug. Looking at my mother now sometimes is as if looking at my own reflection, as I am a piece of her, cut out and away. There’s some unseverable connection that will stay forever, a permanent connection left in the form of deep stretch marks, webbed across my mother's stomach, as our memories remain engraved deep into my mind.

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