I stand my cards, full of best wishes and promises to telephone, on the windowsill. It doesn’t seem five minutes since my children piled into my bed showering me with handmade presents and sticky kisses. I would cut homemade chocolate cake piled high with marshmallows, sprinkles and love, as they sang an out of tune rendition of Happy Birthday. But squeaky high-pitched voices deepened and grew and now I am alone.
The doorbell rings and I shuffle to the door.
The candles flicker on the the wonky cake held before me. ‘We made it for you Grandma.’ The singing starts, old and young voices merge. The sound of a family.