My sister bakes cookies.
One night, I was staying at my sister’s new home in Utah, when I wandered upstairs for a midnight snack. The house was dark, save for the well-lit kitchen. The lights concentrated on my sister, Bethany, while she concentrated on cookies. Flour coated her cheek, mostly just a light layer of dust except for one thick stripe along her cheekbone. She had her hair pulled in a messy bun, potential flyaways tamed by a small, stretchy headband. She’s short and her counter is tall. She pounded and rolled cookie dough from a giant mound she’d been working on for hours while the Game of Thrones played in the background. I get to see her all the time, but she struck me then as particularly beautiful.