I ate buttercream for breakfast and chocolate mousse for lunch. It was a deliciously self-indulgent meal plan. We made gelatin desserts with powders and plastic-like sheets blooming into thick rich textural wonders. Creams came together in silken ribbons and marshmallows melted slowly in our mouths.

Buttercream was smudged on the cuffs of my sleeve and the side of my collar. Fluffy chocolate and strawberry patches accumulated on my white coat, drawn to me as I spun the cake stand like a record turntable. The spatula ran parallel to the cake creating near perfect edges as smooth as fresh paint. Any small unintended tremble in the hand was reflected back in a large ripple.

Ease of precision was a visual fallacy. Attaining smooth frosting in a single stroke was an intricate process based on the proper placement of the tools,  sequence the each stroke, and weight applied from one’s hands. The technique is an iterative practice. The icing is patched and smoothed, then patched again. I moved one step forward, then at times two steps back.

I wondered where all of this would take me.  The last seven months consisted of despair, hope, and love tied up with butchers twine and smeared with frosting. I had smoothed the edges, but inside were stacks of memories and expectations that remained distinctly separate. Strata of unhomogenized layers of wanting and being sat on top of one another covered by the exterior formed by the intention of my hand. Then I remember, one step forward.

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