I pull the cake out of the oven and place it on the counter. Instinctively I grab a kitchen towel and place it over the cake. It’s an action I’ve done dozens of times but today, it hits me with a flood of emotion when I realize I have no idea why I do this. I have no knowledge of the benefit or the reason.
I do it simply because my mother did it.
Each time she’d take a cake from the oven she’d cover it with a thin towel. She always did it with purpose and intent, so I do it. But I don’t know why and I can’t ask her.
I stand here staring at this towel-covered cake and feel upset with myself that I never questioned her about this delicate action. Disheartened that I never took the time to learn her little details and all of her intricacies of the kitchen and beyond.
I can no longer learn from her.
I can no longer call her to ask why she did the things she did.
I can no longer obtain her guidance and her wisdom.
I can no longer ask her questions and hear her response.
Sure, I could type it into the search bar of my computer. But, I don’t want the Google answer. I want her answer. I want her expertise. Maybe she doesn’t even know and she did it because her own mother did, and it’s cycled down through generations. Or maybe she learned it in a baking class, or from a friend.
The harshest reality is that I’ll never know.
I’ll simply never know.
And this is grief. Seven years after losing my mother I’m standing in my kitchen crying about a towel and a cake.
A towel and a cake and questions left unanswered.
If you’re blessed enough to still have your mom, ask her the questions. Even the silly ones– so that one day you don’t find yourself crying over something you wish you could know, but never can.
