Such Great Heights
She beats eggs until they billow above the lip of her bowl. They form shiny, stiff peaks.
A chocolate custard, smooth, thick, voluptuous, bubbles on the stove.
She gently folds them together, until the white disappears.
Lovingly spoons the mixture into a ridged, round dish, capped with a parchment crown.
Slides it into the oven.
Waits. Glides quietly through the house. Hums to Chopin on the radio.
Opens the oven door and spies a lift so high, it rises above the parchment.
Giddy, she removes the souffle: Airy. Light.
Within moments, it falls. And sinks. And slumps: Dense. Heavy.