Everyone grieves differently. But when it occurred to me that I’d eaten 150 scones in three months, I
wondered if I invented a new method of bereavement.

My sister, Bitsy, and I were opposites. She taught music part-time, volunteered at her church, hosted
soirées, and cooked dinner each night. In contrast, I held a corporate position, was partial to fast-food,
and preferred books over parties.

Bitsy had discovered scones when she honeymooned in London. Back home, she found a bakery that
made near-replicas, and those scones became her trademark treat. She’d deliver a duo in a doily-lined
box as a neighborly thank you or to cheer up a friend. At brunches she’d serve assortments on platters.
To her, I suspect, scones reflected refinement, good taste, and a delicious indulgence. To me, they were
hard dry disks. They represented an elegance I lacked.

Bitsy, then 30, became afflicted with brain cancer. Her thinking was clear, but her speech and writing
skills were impaired. Instead, she communicated through mime, expression – and scones. During her

chemo treatments, I babysat my nieces. She thanked me with scones. When Bitsy was bedridden, she
had scones delivered to a hard-working teacher. Scones were her signature “thank you”.

A few months after her death, I picked up a pie at her favorite bakery. Yummy pastries and luscious
cakes lined stainless steel carts and glass display shelves. On the counter were sturdy jars filled with
macaroons, butter cookies and gingersnaps.

My eyes locked onto a trio of wooden trays in the glass case below, trays piled high with scones. In a
sentimental mood, I ordered two – one with a dollop of raspberry preserves, and a poppy seed scone
drizzled with lemon glaze. They tasted surprisingly delicious, not like dry flour cakes. I returned later that
week and purchased a few more.

Each morning I’d relish a cup of tea and a freshly warmed scone. Piercing the golden brown edge with
my fork, I’d savor the crumbly texture as I worked my way around the edge until all that remained was a
jelly-filled dimple. I’d take smaller bites of the flavorful preserves, and think of Bitsy, sometimes
fleetingly, and sometimes with tears.

I wrote “Buy Scones” on my to-do list to make time for the bakery. I became embarrassed when they
greeted me with, “A dozen scones for you today?” I’d sheepishly respond, “Sure. Eight apricot, four
raisin. Wow, they sure like these at the office.” (I worked solo at home).

At first I ate them only for breakfast, but they morphed into lunches and sometimes a dinner. At the
height of my craving, I ordered two dozen scones weekly. They came packed in a carton.
Months passed. My bakery runs dwindled to an occasional visit and my desire for scones drifted away. It
paralleled my grief; no longer acute, although lingering.

Recently, I bought one raspberry scone. I relaxed in my kitchen, with a mug of Earl Gray, savoring each
nibble. I wanted to speak with my sister. I wanted to tell her I understood her more now. Tears rolled
down my cheeks as I stared at my half-eaten scone. But now I understood the message behind it.

- Dedicated to my sister, Elisabeth Greenwald Mapes (Jan 4, 1966 - Dec 6, 2000)