APPLE PIE

 

After school, with teachers pressing us poor and ethnic kids

to have good manners, and then the streets’ threat

of snowballs or insults, home was sanctuary—Mother gone,

but in her place an apple pie, her special craft.

.

With a glass of milk I’d eat a thin piece, a thicker piece,

and then as much as I might dare; once I ate just less

than half a whole one. In the kitchen, warm with the yellow

sun, the milk and pie filled me up.

.

I’m not suggesting, because the memory is appealing, that

was a good way of growing up. The sweet, soft things of my childhood

made me sweet and soft and utterly defenseless till at 12,

after Phyllis called me Fatso, I starved myself thin.

.

What’s made me happiest all this week was my son, at 7,

announcing his favorite cereal is shredded wheat—no sugar,

just the grain, hard and crunchy, good for children to grow up

hard and healthy and fearless in the streets.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: