My mum is making a Christmas cake today.
Later than usual,
and smaller in size,
but still the same nostalgic taste that smeared my cheeks,
and coated my hands as a child.
I wonder how many times I've stirred that
jewel studded,
sticky mixture,
and made a wish,
back when I stood in my slippers
on a stool to reach the counter,
and even now when I tower above it,
like a wise and knowing pine tree.
I wonder how many wishes are
folded and
whisked and
entwined in that
old friend I call a Christmas cake.
I wonder how many have,
and will,
come true.