cake

Today we baked a chocolate cake. To celebrate my father's birthday, though I didn't tell the kids that.

They were quite perplexed as to why I stuck a sparkler in it. Apparently that was all that piqued their curiosity - don't get the wrong idea, I rarely bake cakes.

Anyhow - it was my little way of celebrating my father. Last year I was overcome by his birthday - one of the few times I used to call him. And rarely got him. I baked a cake last year, out of feeling awful, and I suppose out of grief.

I felt fine all day, until the sparkler went out on the cake. And I started to think about how my dad would have been 65 today. Dying at 63 sounds so young. It is so young. And so sad, especially because so much of it was self-inflicted. I see the sad life he led, now that I don't have to protect myself with anger.

I mentioned to my best friend yesterday that today was my dad's birthday (we've been friends for 30 years, she is one of my few friends who knew my dad) and she asked if I was okay.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm going to bake a cake."

She looked at me very strangely. Then said "I've never heard of that."

Her father died when she was 12. He was so young, it was such a shock, it was 4 days before Christmas. (I clearly remember when we got the call, that I was eating peas, and for once my father was home for dinner. I remember sitting on his lap and crying. I think that might be the last time I ever sat on his lap. I was 11.)

She said she usually focusses on the day he died. Marking it in some way. But that it is a sad thing, and hard to do amidst all the holiday cheer.

She's going to celebrate his birthday from now on. And bake him a cake.

After we'd had our cake tonight I sent Stu to both our sets of neighbours with a huge piece of cake. He was so proud of himself for delivering it. And now I won't eat it all...