There was a handmade cake on my table
and a letter with immature hand:
I start with this
but know that
whenever and wherever I bake a cake
you'll be in my mind.
It tasted not that sweet
I remember
and she was never to make another
in my corners of bitter December.
I have no other Christmas memory.
There couldn't be.
In remembrance of a girl who could not be a woman, but was almost, as God withdrew the angel too soon.
Interwoven with my Christmas memory.