Endings

My mom’s birthday is Saturday. She died in August 2019, but I still mark the occasion the same way as when she was living. I order a king cake from New Orleans.

The cake part of the name is a bit of a misnomer because it’s actually more of a pastry shaped into an oval with the traditional colors of Mardi Gras — purple, green, and gold — on top in the form of icing and/or sugar.

Mom had an outsized sweet tooth, the kind that leads a person to love buttercream frosting and eat it solo, so she loved king cake, which we were introduced to when I was a graduate student at Tulane.

On the last birthday we celebrated together, four years ago, I ordered the king cake from Haydel’s bakery in New Orleans as per usual. It’s a crazy indulgence given the price to ship it, but it’s the best king cake.

By then, Mom was living in a dementia-care facility. I took a thermos of hot tea, and the three of us — Mom, my daughter, and me — sat outside in the courtyard, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I don’t remember what gifts we gave Mom or what we talked about, but I remember that king cake and all three of us eating more than one piece.

Inside the king cake, you’ll find a plastic baby. The cake is named for Epiphany when the three kings arrived to give their gifts to the baby Jesus. The person who gets the baby is supposed to buy the next king cake or throw the next party, the idea being that the cycle of eating, partying, and enjoying each other’s company doesn’t end until Carnival season ends.

It’s such a clear reminder of the cyclical nature of reality but how our experience of reality makes us feel otherwise. Everything begins and ends endlessly.

Coinciding with Mom’s birthday this year is the anniversary of Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh’s death. His message throughout his life was not to allow impermanence to make us suffer, for nothing and no one truly dies.

Thich Nhat Hanh would use many metaphors from nature to make his point. One such example is a wave in the ocean. A single wave will grow and then crash onto the shore. The wave is gone. But the wave is made of water so is part of the ocean. Only its form as a wave is over. The water is still there, still “alive.”

It’s a less elegant metaphor, but the king cake allows me insight into impermanence also.

The king cake that arrived today will be eaten quickly and then gone. I’ll use the excuse that it should be eaten while fresh when really I can’t resist it.

If I were living in New Orleans still, there would be more king cake to come until I reached Mardi Gras and couldn’t even think about eating another piece.

But, then, next year at the beginning of Carnival, it’s time for more king cake, and the cycle starts all over again.

As I eat this king cake serving as a birthday cake for one I loved dearly who is no longer here, I will treasure the memories of previous celebrations with her.

When we sit down to share the king cake, I will look at my daughter and see my mom there, reflected in obvious ways, such as her beautiful curls, and in less obvious ways, such as Mom’s sweetness, for she was sweeter even than a king cake, and I see that quality in her granddaughter.

I will once again miss having her here with me where I could hug her and tell her how much I love her, but I will embrace the truth that she is still here and I need only pay attention to feel her presence once again.

It is a sweet truth.