A Quality Street Tin

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.

Remembering.

Then cover the pot. And make my way to the front room. She’s there.

Peaceful.

I pull a chair up next to her.

And enjoy the last cake she ever made.

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