Cupcakes
-for my grandmother-
An image uncovers a memory,
one glowing that special halcyon glow,
protector-distorter of memories archived in childhood.
You, in the kitchen that was all blues.
Or was it greens? Irrelevant.
What I remember is you:
Your smile. Your hands.
Hands that had stories folded into their creases,
as yet unfolded by Child Me.
Your hands have become my definition of hands.
And the cupcakes. Butterfly cupcakes.
Vanilla sponge, light as Soph’s giggles,
with the top cut off and halved.
Spread with jam, usually strawberry, somehow
still smelling of sun. Then cream.
Then your hands would transform the two golden halves
into butterfly wings that perched on top,
carrying your message to Always Me:
“I love you.”
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