Wrong Answer

Apple pie (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Isn’t this the

Best pie you’ve

ever had?

I queried, hovering over you.

 

Actually,

My mom’s is better,

You responded, casually,

as you replaced your fork on the plate.

Wrong Answer.

 

My pie,

My first–for you

(I don’t even really like pie)

made with love, for you.

 

My heart was overflowing

(like the apples in the pie)

I was so proud to serve you,

My husband,

My pie.

 

I made it for you.

And pastry making is not particularly easy,

especially when also taking care of an eight month old baby.

So the answer that I was hoping for

Was that you recognized

All that went into that pie.

 

Alas,

you didn’t.

And, therefore, I gave up my pie making.

Your mom can make you pie.

 

It may taste better, but it won’t be

The best you’ve ever had.

I made you that.

Whether or not

you realize it.

 

–July 7, 2013

 

Notes: This poem is a nod to my very brief foray into pie making. It was a lot of work and the end result wasn’t really worth it. My husband’s response still stings, even today, almost 5 years later. I still feel like I’m in a creative slump, but I thought that writing about something was better than not writing at all. And why not start with the sore spots? I always find hurt is easier to write about than happiness, even if it is about something as silly as apple pie. P.S. If you came here looking for a recipe for apple pie, I can direct you to my husband’s mom–apparently she makes the best pie.