I put the X on the anniversary of your last day but it seems wrong to sully it. It makes it seem so final. The day speeds by as I bake to fill freezers and counter spaces. I start with Valentine Orange Cookies in misshapen cupids, heads snapping easily off into crumbles. Peanut brittle next. The recipe we perfected over long winters as children, a time of big sister bonding I never got in other seasons. The advent of the microwave reduced waiting times and the hourly process is now over in minutes.

It’s a blur of breads and muffins, cakes and hard sweets, crowding for space on the fridge and table. Some trays are even creeping into the lounge. That night he finds me on the floor. The last batch in your favourite. Cinnamon piercing the air in exotic arrows as I curl by the stove, flour covered dough hands pressed to the oven window. Eyes closed. Pretending the warmth is you.