On Sunday morning the air is sweet, orange zest and poppy seeds and flour pushed across the countertop like paint, my mother's finger-marks running through the soft white in haphazard circles and a fat mass of dough sitting contently in the middle. The kitchen is warm and balmy, cast in early-morning-sunlight yellow deepened by the oven-heat. My mother pushes the dough out at its edges, flattening it with her palms while I hold my chin in mine, crushing poppy seeds against my teeth and watching her. In the Springtime the creek is warm, the soft hum of water rolling over stones like glass bein