By Phoebe Boswall
Smells of baking remind me of you.
Your red apron, my small striped one with the torn pocket.
Your soft stretched skin, fingers kneading dough
into a ball. My fat floury hands
grasped for your amber necklace,
Quick, Phoebe, the oven!
You played with flavours,
made little blobs of buttery dough on the tray
Your warm kitchen, my safe haven.
You taught me your language:
bicarbonate of soda, self-raising flour, vanilla extract,
millilitres of milk, grams of sugar:
caster, muscovado, granulated.
Now your apron hangs empty on the peg.
I wear it from time to time; mine with the torn pocket
doesn’t fit anymore.