of citrus and wistfulness

We made a cake last night, me and my trustiest baking pal.

We zest oranges and sift flour. We watch through the spattered oven window as the layers golden, and we fan our hands impatiently over them once they’re sitting, stubbornly warm and in oven-withdrawal, on the kitchen table.

While we wait, we flit from pâtisserie semantics (pie or tart?) to the funny way her departure date keeps inching closer. She’s moving to a far-away land soon — packing her rich, quirky life into the thirty-some squared liters she’ll strap to her back. My gut knots  inside me as we giggle over her plans to throw the most epic vintage yard sale in the history of her small town.

The cake has cooled. And it’s far, far too soon.

We each frost one layer with a solemn, maternal hand. Then, we break bread eat cake together, not for the last time, but almost.