.png)
The streets of Ottawa still echoed with song, even as twilight spilled over Parliament Hill. Flo closed her front door softly, muffling the city’s jubilation. The red paper flags fluttered on her porch, the only part of the celebration she’d brought home.
In the quiet of her kitchen, the scent of vanilla and burnt sugar lingered. The cake had risen just right that morning — golden, slightly cracked, the way James liked it. She’d baked it before the sun came up, her hands steady despite the ache in them. Victory Day had arrived, and the war was over. But James would never know.
She set a single plate on the table. No candles. No toasts. Just the cake, his favorite: honey sponge with a touch of lemon. He used to say it reminded him of their honeymoon in Prince Edward County — sweet, light, like the wind near the lake.
Flo sliced the cake with care, plating two portions. One for her. One for the silence across from her.
A clock ticked somewhere behind her. Outside, the city roared with joy. But here, in the stillness of her kitchen, she lifted her fork, closed her eyes, and tasted what remained of love on May 8, 1945.
- Patti Friday
No comments:
Post a Comment