The lid stuck. Was everso slightly rusted. I’m sure she used to keep buttons in this. Then it gives, belches a burst of ginger and spice.
“Oooh Nan you’ve done us proud this time”
But there’s no one to hear. I plate up a couple of pieces. Deep sticky brown. Pick up the tea-cosy as familiar as an old friend, press it to my nose, inhale deeply.
Then cover the pot. And make my way to the front room. She’s there.
I pull a chair up next to her.
And enjoy the last cake she ever made.