With a final glance back at your sleeping mother, you begin your ascent. Childhood is not for the fainthearted. Those lily-livered weenies at the preschool can settle for their animal crackers and watery apple juice, but not you. Not! You!
The seat of the chair starts to pivot and you feel your bootied feet slipping. Desperate, you cling to the seat, your tiny claws sinking into the tattered upholstery. You kick your chubby legs, trying to find a foothold, and then your toes find a crack in the edge of the seat. You jam your little tootsie rolls in the crack and hoist yourself up onto the seat, spinning wildly. You choke back the spit-up and throw your legs wide, slowing the spin.
Slowly, slowly, you come to a halt. You stand, leaning over the back of the seat and peer toward the top of the desk, scattered with pins and scraps and bobbins, and there, in a halo of light spilling from the almost-shuttered window, it is.
The Cake. Its orange and white surface alight with warmth and promise, it seems to welcome you to its side. It’s been waiting for you.
You lean forward across the back of the seat and clamber onto the surface of the desk. Your hands sink into the satin frosting and moist crumbles within, and you smile. Come to baby.