Tulia
Takeshi stood on the tips of his toes, both hands resting neatly flat on the edge of the wooden island. His feline ears were perked forward, trembling slightly at the faintest shift of my sleeves, and his tail curled into an alert, patient hook behind him.
"Alright, Sir Takeshi," I said, setting the wide ceramic scoop into the moist sugar. "Your turn. One packed scoop, then we bring in the butter."
His golden eyes lit up. He reached out with both hands, taking the handle with that earnest, solemn precision that always made my heart squeeze. He didn't rush. He pressed the scoop into the dark granules, using the palm of his little hand to tamp it down flat, exactly the way I had demonstrated during our autumn bake last year.
"Packed tight, Ma," he whispered, his voice hushed as if a single loud breath might ruin the magic.
I patted my shy kitty on the head, running my fingers through his messy dark tufts until his ears gave a contented little flick against my palm.
