I have learned how to communicate between Heaven and Earth, it’s a piece of cake.
Crack some eggs, add some flour, vanilla, bake at 350 for 15 minutes, then go to your local grocery store and buy a cake you would be happy to serve and savor sweetness on a bitter day.
Pass memories on plates around the table, laugh, cry, live, celebrate like ants remembering the warmth of spring during winter. Spend hours talking about her sayings and talents, like how she could recognize a bird by how it descended onto the ground.
Reminisce until the cake starts to disappear by the the slice, leaving behind mortal crumbs on the dish, the fee to process a rapture of a yellow cake to the Pearly Gates, where it will be accepted by St Peter, and delivered to the newest angel, who is playing at a table with old friends, a smirk on her face, her eyes shifting from one hand to another, ready to clean house, until she is interrupted by the saint, who winks and says, “Happy birthday.”
“Have mercy,” she will say, as she accepts her gift, and she will peek her little head down from the clouds, to look down on what looks like ants, her family that used their caloric intake and Catholic hope to say I love you, again.
“Have mercy,” she will say, answering our forged wishes
that her birthday might be easier next year.
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This poem is in honor of my beloved Grandma Marie, whose birthday was yesterday. She celebrated her 97th in Heaven and I know she had a nice time reminiscing with her parents, brothers, twin, and son; the sky was as blue as her eyes, the birds seemed to sing louder, and even some of her hydrangea bush bloomed. I hope the cake I had to honor her made it up in time. If not, I am sure she would have appreciated the sentiment, Heaven is sweet enough anyway.