Time in a pie
Published on May 23, 2017
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Time in a pie
Photo by Timothy Valentine
The collective moments are dry and faded like a worn love letter. My sister and I making chocolatey mud pies in front of our house. In front of the garage door and our cars. Which house was this? Must have been New Caney but could have been Aldine.
Did we have a make-shift table from saw horses or was it a folding table? I remember fudgy sludge and discarded, pie-shaped, stamped aluminum. Those flimsy tins crackled and warped as we filled and molded them. Twigs, leaves and pebbles were dry and crumbly through my sticky palm like sprinkles, topping the pie.
The time stretched out like honey poured from a jar and the possibilities were only confined by our minds and household supplies.
I remember feeling wonder at whether my sister understood the seriousness of this pie making business. We even discussed selling them at the end of the cement path like a lemonade stand. Did we innately know that no one would want them or did Mom discourage us?
Photo by adwriter
Looking back I think Mom loved those mud pies too because they kept us out of the house and her ear for hours.
Photo by Sweet Carolina Photography
