Not all rules should be held equal.

In fact, there are some that should be broken.

Not out of injustice, but out of love and growth.

Never out of rebellion but an allowed transgression out of respect.

A loved mistake.

A gentle hand.

***

My mother used to make homemade cookies.

Delights that would test the patience.

The baked aroma would fill the air and my sister and I would get so excited.

What was a short time felt like eternity to little girls.

Temptations promptly set out to cool.

Delicious goods still gooey from the heat and us told to let them cool.

***

My sister and I would risk the burns.

You really would not think a little girl in a wheelchair could be sneaky and perhaps I wasn’t but I tried.

I would wait for mom to get distracted: involved in another activity or talking with someone else.

When the coast was clear I would make my move.

Sneaking the piping hot cookies into my lap two per heist.

I would then sneak into the dark office at the back of the house to enjoy my loot in secret.

***

I broke the rules and I knew it.

Nothing good is ever done with a fear of being caught.

But those memories became the definition of golden youth.

A foundation I grew from.

A time I became more of myself in will.

All from a seemingly ordinary memory.

***

I have asked my mom before if she ever caught me and never said anything.

She swears she did not,

But part of me thinks she did.

I would love to believe that I was sneaky enough for her to not notice.

But a greater part of me wants to believe that she let it all happen.

Choosing to support innocent joy over a rule.

***

Those memories would have been very different if I was called out.

A source of shame and guilt rather than positivity.

I learned from other sources to respect authority and honestly did not need much correction anyway.

Instead I was given this one thing along with a few other minor ones.

Allowed to grow a thrive outside of a box.

All for the price of a cookie.