Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Carrot Cake



For two days, my mind has been wrung dry. Emotions that I can't name and thoughts that I can't contain have saturated my brain and memories that once sat quietly at the back of my mind have flooded to the forefront, stinging quite suddenly, like tears.

And so today, with the aftermath of the funeral still suffocating my sanity, I baked myself a carrot cake.

And as I baked I thought about the cake that we ate once the funeral was over, the awkward conversations with unknown relatives had been borne, the enormity of the occasion had been digested, and the tears had been forgotten. 

We'd kicked off our uncomfortable shoes and shed our sombre clothes, and we'd sat in the splendor of Granny's garden, pouring tea from her silver tea-pot and eating carrot cake off her china plates.

We'd lifted our faces to the sunshine and felt our bones lighten with the warmth, and we'd chatted about holidays and future visits, bickered over the last slice of cake, and smiled and laughed and talked.

It was all completely normal, except that Granny wasn't there; and it had occurred to me that this was the simple reality of the matter and this was how it was always going to be.

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