Made With Love

• Isabelle Kimenyi, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2020

The Christmas tree is meant to signify life. Life and love. When you look at it, you are to rejoice. But when I look at this evergreen tree, I am only reminded of heartache. Confusion. My Mums Death.
And so it’s the end of another Christmas. Another year is nearly over.

“Gem!” My sibling, Adam, calls.
I groan at the sound of his voice, he only calls me if he wants me to do something for him.
“Yes.” I answered flatly.
“Can you get me a Shortbread biscuit from the pot?”
I scowl. The pot is all the way at the top of the cupboard.

“ Ugh… Fine.”
I go on my tippy toes and try my hardest to reach the biscuits. Not even close. I step on a chair nearby, and stand as tall as I can, reaching forward for the glass pot; its shiny coat glistening in the light. I push myself forward, clutching onto the jar. I pushed forward too much and I fell, leaving me with a sore back, and a smashed jar.
“Hey! What’s going on Gem? Are you okay?” Adam calls.
I am about to answer when the Shortbread biscuits catch my eye. They seem different, not like those ones Dad buys from the shops. There’s something about them. It all hits me at once. I look up to realise they aren't the pot Dad bought. Mum made them, we must have forgotten about them. I remember baking them!

I remember it was Christmas time two years ago. We were mixing all the ingredients. She would put the batter in a pan, then would then blow a kiss at the batter and put it in the oven. “Every dish needs some love” , is what she would say to me.
Since her death, the world has felt cold. But these biscuits have made it feel just a little bit warmer. I got an idea. I rummage through the file cabinet, and buried at the back, I find the handwritten recipe of Mum’s Special Shortbread. I go through the fridge and cupboard, finding all the ingredients. Mixing it together, I stick my finger in and taste the batter. Delicious. I put little spoonfuls of batter onto the oven pan. As it bakes, the smell of the biscuits fill the kitchen. I check up on them after twenty minutes. They are done. Just as I am pulling the biscuits out of the oven, Adam walks in.
He then Adam stops in his tracks.
“Mum’s biscuits?” Tears begin to well up in his eyes.
“ Yes Adam.Yes.” I ran over and hugged him.
“I made some, want to try.”
“Of course.”
He reaches and picks up one. He bites into it.
“Perfect.” He said,
I hear the door opening.
“Dad’s home.”
As he came through to the kitchen, he inhaled deeply. His cheeks turned red, and tears ran down his face. He took a biscuit and brought us into a tight hug.
He then whispers,
“Made with love.”