GINGER

I'll always be thinking of my sister when I make porridge in the morning (oatmeal, that is, for my American friends.  I've never managed to adopt that particular vocabulary).  What I learned from Flora was that the addition of just a little finely chopped fresh ginger makes all the difference to the taste.  I see her in her kitchen, early in the morning, paring knife in hand, working patiently to chop a piece of ginger root into tiny squares and sweeping them off the chopping board into the steaming porridge mix...

I heard yesterday from my niece to let me know about funeral plans.  I'll be returning to my home country in June, for the second time in two months, this time to attend my sister's funeral.  I can't write--or say--those words without a sense of utter disbelief.  And strangely, I think that making porridge will have me thinking about Flora more often, in the future, than any funeral or memorial service; I know the bigger ritual is important--but it's the little ones that can mean just as much.