A hundred years ago, or maybe just 20, Canape and I spent the day together, baking something in her mother’s kitchen. This in itself was not unusual; we often baked or sang or just sat about talking in her living room — we were just that kind of rebellious, y’know?
We were best friends, dating guys who were best friends, seeing them mostly at church (Wednesday, Saturday, and twice on Sunday, thankyouverymuch), and I don’t remember the details, but I remember very vividly the fact that she wanted to make him a cake. A pink cake, shaped like a heart. And we baked and she cut and she iced and worked for hours, making that pink heart-shaped cake. A whole lot of effort and care and caring went into that cake, and she was going to surprise him with it that night.
At the time, I remember wishing that I loved someone that much, enough to spend a whole afternoon worrying over the layers and the icing and the whole heart-shaped-iness of it all. I wondered if that day would ever come for me.
Of course it did, and I laughed about it as I remembered that long-ago day this morning. I put aside my work and spent the entire day playing with my little boys, planting bulbs in little glass vases in hopes that forcing them would force Spring to come, and we baked a cake.
A pink, heart-shaped cake, layered with raspberry jam, with crooked letters spelled out very earnestly across the top:
We love you, Daddy.