A letter to Mum and her mince (肉末) pies
When I was a little girl, you and I loved decorating the living room and Christmas tree. After 1, we would bake cakes. “Make enough mince pies, because Santa likes them,” you would tell me.
Christmas Eve came and you would put me on my 2 made bed. I'd fall asleep until Christmas 3. I'd wake up and thrill at the 4 before me. At the bottom of my bed would be loads of presents. I'd scream in delight, 5 tearing the paper open. Running downstairs, I would 6 that Santa hadn't just stopped in the 7 : there were also lots of 8 around the Christmas tree.
Many years later, the 9 continued. The only thing that 10 was the presents at the end of the bed – I grew out of them.
One afternoon while we were 11 extra mince pies as usual, it 12 hit me that the extra wasn't for 13. I said, “Those extra mince pies were never for Santa, were they? They were for you!” You never said a word – a smile was your only 14.
Christmas changed in 1986, when you suffered a 15 brain disease. After 16 throughout Christmas, you passed away on the 29 December.
Only now am I starting to enjoy Christmas again, and while I don't do the 17 any more, I do have mince pies in the house. I leave one out just for you, as if you were 18 a part of my Christmas. And I make sure I put up the decorations 19 you, and us. Thanks for the 20 memories of Christmas, Mum.
