Sometimes I can still smell the lingering scent of funnel cake in my mother’s hair. I can still see her blue-striped Fair Haven Firemen’s Fair apron draped over the kitchen chair. I can see her tying those apron strings. I can see her checking her hair and lipstick in the mirror by the door. I can hear her voice calling to me upstairs to hurry up as I tried to get my pigtails even and the puffy yarn bows tied just right. I’m always late.

And sometimes I can still see us walking down the street, her scurrying, brushing her hair to the side, still yelling back to me to hurry up.

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