My mother, she was, is a good, good woman
Kind and giving
But we just don’t talk akin to how we used to – when I would pour the simple tea, she delicately place the icing atop any cake that she might have imagined
Tantalising, That life and This particular cake
Can a cake take you right back, you could ask?
Course it can, and will
Still does, in fact
I bite on in, feel all of these coursing flavours bounce about to happily die inside and lend myself an old smile, my favourite smile of them all, actually
The smile that stole a thousand sunshine days, a thousand more fun – filled moments
And I write, wrote rather, about it as such
‘Til my fingers become… ahem, became gnarled, that cherished plate smeared, and my mouth sticky aside wholeheartedly implemented
She would take a visual picture from fleeting memory to remind me immediately whilst leaning on over to catch a lasting kiss

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