Livora Gracely

That tastes like childhood.

Half a Glass

The cow had nearly reached the gate when she remembered the flowers.

They were still on the kitchen table, beside a glass of milk and a red-and-white straw. The girl who lived there had left the glass half full before going to school.

Now the cow carried the flowers to the door, then went back to close the window. On the table, the straw leaned over the edge of the glass. She took a small sip through the straw.

She paused.

The taste was familiar, but not from the kitchen. It belonged somewhere farther back: a warm morning, her mother’s side beside her, and the smell of grass after rain.

She looked again at the glass. The girl had left it for later, so the cow left it where it was.

A Longer List

She was visiting her mother. Besides flowers, she had planned to buy biscuits, a new ribbon and her favourite marmalade.

She wanted the visit to feel special. The ribbon on the gate had faded almost white.

At the end of the lane, the road divided. The shop was to the left; her mother’s meadow lay beyond the bend to the right.

The shopkeeper had once spent an afternoon looking for marmalade behind the tea.

The cow looked at her flowers. A little water remained on the stems where she had cut them that morning.

The memory returned: she was small, drinking so quickly that her mother had to tell her to stop and breathe. Afterwards, she had stood with a white line above her mouth, certain there must be more.

Her mother had laughed and wiped it away with the edge of a clean cloth.

The cow turned towards the meadow.

Through the Gate

Her mother was near the fence when she arrived. The faded ribbon was still tied to the gate, with one end caught around the latch.

“You’re early,” her mother said.

“I didn’t go to the shop.”

She held out the flowers. Her mother took them and found a jar on the windowsill. While she arranged the stems, the cow sat where she could see the gate.

“I was going to bring biscuits too,” she said. “And a ribbon. Yours has lost its colour.”

Her mother glanced outside. “It has. I keep meaning to replace it.”

A breeze lifted the ribbon and left it hanging against the post.

“I could come back with one,” the cow said.

“You could. Today you came with flowers.”

Her mother arranged the flowers on the sill. The afternoon had only just begun.

One More Minute

The cow told her about the glass on the kitchen table and the taste that had followed her down the lane.

“I remembered you,” she said.

“I remember you too,” her mother replied. “Especially when you thought every meal ought to have a second helping.”

“I was growing.”

“You were impatient.”

Her mother brought out two cups. The cow waited while they filled them and sat down again. Outside, the faded ribbon moved against the gate.

“Does the little girl still have her milk?” her mother asked.

“Yes. I only took a little.”

“Good. You used to manage rather more than that.”

The cow lifted her cup. This time she took a small sip, then put it down while her mother told her what had happened to the ribbon’s missing colour.

It had been red once. Her mother was quite certain of that.