Coming home in time for...
Prompt #1 from Mark Diacono's Abundance Writing Group Gathering
Last night was the first of Mark Diacono’s monthly writing group gatherings. I took so much from my time at Cadhay with Mark and Diana Henry earlier this year, that I was beyond amped that we’d have a version of that through Zoom every month.
I absorbed so much listening to the stories that my ‘classmates’ read aloud, such as how to world build, set a scene - or how to use rhythm and tempo to build tension in a story to drive emotion.
With these monthly sessions, Mark shares a prompt a week before we meet and you’re allowed 1 hour to write. Then, during the gathering we talk about what came up in the writing, how we approached it and, for those who feel comfortable, we read our words aloud.
Does the thought of that make you feel slightly sweaty and cringy? Good! That’s exactly how I was at Cadhay. I almost lost the chance to read mine out that day and it turned out to be the best thing I ever did for my confidence. Not in speaking out loud, but in my words. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but the feedback, encouragement and was totally priceless.
Even if you don’t share your own piece, simply listening to how others build a world, pace a paragraph, or find the emotional core of a story is wildly inspiring. It’s so exciting to hear how differently people interpret the same few words!
To join the writing group, along with an Abundance of other fantastic perks - visit Mark’s substack via the button below:
Here was this week’s prompt: Coming home in time for…
And here is my story: Coming home in time for the last slice of cake.
I grew up measuring time in jobs around the farm and whatever I could glean from grandma’s treat cupboard. Muck out. Slice of cake. Riding practice. Slice of cake. Brush the yard… you guessed it. (We were a horsey family. Showjumpers, to be exact. There didn’t leave room for much else, besides horses and eating).
How many times did I dash into the kitchen over the years, I wonder? I had it down to a fine art. Through the porch past the open sack of potatoes, to the sink to wash hands and then a quick wipe on the hanging tea towel that never seemed to dry.
Dancing around whoever was sat at the large round mahogany kitchen table. There was always people sat at that table. Grandma would be there, of course - the matriarch of our family. The kitchen was her kingdom. The heart of everything.
And finally to the end of the kitchen. When I was little, I’d pull up a chair to reach the holy grail of snacks - just above where the chip pan that hadn’t been cleaned out for as long as I’d been alive was kept. Rocky bars, Clubs, digestives, Rich Teas, marshmallow teacakes… I remember my grandma chuckling, as I pull out a chosen treat, hold it in the air and say ‘Grandma, can I have a biscuit’. The answer was always yes. And the follow up was always ‘Can I have two?’
The golden prize, though, was always cake. And there was *always* cake. Madeira cake was a permanent fixture. But who wants Madeira cake? The best was Jamaica Ginger. Sticky-topped, glinting and already half gone before you knew it.
The return journey was via the kitchen sink for a mug, not glass, a mug of water. I dont think I’ve ever had my thirst quenched quite like those mugs of water…
Years passed. I moved away. Life got louder.
It was meant to be a short visit. A weekend visiting mum, who now lived in the village just a few miles from the farm, and catching up with family. But the living room no longer looked the same. The hospital bed was set up where the old sofa used to be. My grandma, once the quiet axis of our kitchen life, now lay still and small under thin sheets. I helped lift her once, gently, to turn her. I braced myself for the weight and felt nothing.
I tried to sleep that night but couldn’t. Something didn’t feel right. I got up and set off into the dark for the farm. The 45 minute journey started as a walk and became a run without me deciding. Fields blurred past. The cold stung my cheeks and the tears stung more. I remember laughing at some point, a wild little bark at the madness of sprinting towards goodbye, and then I ran harder, because I didn’t want goodbye to happen without me.
When I arrived, the house was still. Through the porch, no potatoes now, and into the kitchen. My mum, uncle and cousin were sat at the table, drinking tea, talking about everything and nothing - which is exactly what love sounds like at two‑something in the morning.
I sat next to her listening to her breathe, until - there was silence.
We cried, we laughed, we told stories that made our hearts ache and swell in the same breath. It felt right, being in her kitchen.
At some point, I got up to make tea. I opened the treat cupboard to grab a biscuit.
And there it was… the last slice of Jamaica cake.
You wrote a beautiful story and it was moving to hear you read it. I am glad you've posted it.
You made me cry - that was beautifully written and truly lovely Mark.