Making Shortbread with Nana

It is the afternoon, and I am sifting flour.
The frosts have passed, and Nana lifted
a big green bowl onto the kitchen table.
Now I am carefully measuring sugar.
I am rubbing in butter as a big green bus
rumbles by, taking people into town.

‘Where do you think they are going?’ I ask.
‘To buy the sunlight and the golden
buttercups in the long grass by the park,
before they are mown,’ Nana replies.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Because they are lonely,’ Nana replies.
Then she says, ‘But I have you, and you bring
the sunshine and the golden buttercups.
Let us put them in our shortbread.’

We stir them in, giggling.
‘Listen,’ Nana whispers, putting her finger
to her lips. ‘Can you hear it?’
I listen very carefully.
‘Let us put the birdsong in too,’ she says.
‘If you don’t catch the songs and put
them in, they’ll be lost forever.’
I watch as Nana opens the window wide
and reaches out her hand.

The shortbread, fresh from the oven,
is as miraculous as a flower.
I count three buses until it’s ready to eat.
After I take my first bite, Nana says, ‘Well?’
I think for a long minute.
‘It tastes like spring,’ I say.