“You baked for me?”
she asks in a tremulous voice,
a voice I’ve never heard before.
Her face looks like one of those
cardboard puzzles
with some of the pieces missing.
“It looks awful now,” Davy reports.
“I must have forgotten an ingredient,”
I explain miserably,
wait for her to say how,
naturally, I can’t even manage
to make a simple cake.
“We followed the recipe,”
says Richie.
“Maisie tried real hard.”