I’ve lost two more this year. We’ll be creating cookies next week. I wonder what my grandmother would have liked most.
Mom stirs the batter in the bowl. It’s a perfect color. All I can think about is how gooey it looks, but will be perfect little cakes when done.
I love cake!
But this cake isn’t for me.
“Do you have the spices?”
I nod dumping the required cinnamon. Grandma always loved cinnamon. It was her favorite spice ever. Every weekend she’d agree to make snicker-doodle cookies. IT is my favorite… I sniffle rubbing the water form my eyes.
“I know Sweetie.” Mom stops stirring to give me a big hug. “Did you want to stop?”
I shake my head wildly. “No. Grandma always baked with me. I want to bake for her.”
“Okay. Get out the cake pan.”
I gulp taking out the little mini cake pans. It is being made for Grandma, but we’re going to offer some to Grandpa and Aunt Olive too. I can’t bake with them anymore. But I can bake for them. “Here, Mom.”
“Good, good.” Mom has no trouble setting everything up as it should. Perfectly perfect cakes. “Is the oven on already?”
I nod looking at the numbers saying it’s preheated. “It’s ready.”
“Stay back. It’s hot.”
“I know.” I keep back as Mom slides the cake pans into the oven. Then the timer is set. “Will we make it in time?”
“The cake should be ready shortly. Is it almost midnight?”
The sun is still out. There’s lots of time before midnight. “Yes?”
“It’s only 11 am. We’ll have plenty of time to decorate them even. What do you think they’ll like?”
I bite my cheek thinking of my missing relatives. “Hearts. Lots of hearts. That’s what they always gave me.”
“That sounds perfect. You plan the design while the cake bakes.” Mom always knows what to say.
I stare at the oven while holding my pencil. Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Olive. Once a year I can bake them a cake. Once a year we can celebrate together again. “I don’t like it, Mom.”
“I know.” Mom wraps me up in a hug. “But the day is to celebrate them. Death isn’t the end. Their memories are still inside you. They are inside all of us. They’ll never die as long as you remember.”
I gulp down the tears. “Lots of hearts.”
“I’ll get the rest ready while you plan how to decorate their cakes.”
“Okay.” Crying isn’t wrong. Mom said that. Grandma said that. They deserve to be celebrated. Because life wouldn’t be so great if they didn’t exist in it. “I’ll always remember them.”
This reminds me of my poem: [Poem: Missing You]