A Steady Cinnamon Stick

I rolled slowly across the kitchen counter toward the small rotating spice rack. Right on the edge of the second tier, a long, rolled stick of dried cinnamon was teetering precariously, tapping against the polished wood each time a breeze blew through the cracked window. I paused, resting my round belly against the base of the turnstile to let the movement settle. Then, leaning in with calm, patient weight, I nudged the spice stick an inch deeper into its shallow groove. It nested flat with a soft, fragrant click, perfectly still beside me.