A tapestry of lightening branched across the solid gray of cloud outside Maddie's kitchen window as she drank her morning coffee and peeled and sliced one apple after another.
Leaves, spent from months of gathering sunlight, loosed their hold from the orchard's trees, stampeding like a panicked herd of wild horses in the angry gusts of wind and driving rain. Thunder rumbled, their pounding hooves as they fled captivity.
It seemed like only yesterday that she had sat at this same table, as her mother patiently taught her how to safely use the paring knife, creating ribbons of red apple peel, as she proudly helped turn their harvested apples into the pies they would freeze and eat over the next year.
Maddie smiled, remembering how she had become bored, and her father had taken her out to the paddock to sit on the fence and watch the horses. He smiled conspiratorially, pulling pilfered apples from his pocket, and helped her hold her hand flat as Dusty gently lipped one, tickling her palm.
Somehow, Daddy returned her to the kitchen at just the right moment to help roll out the last crust. They scooped the apples into the waiting shells, adding the Cinnamon and sugar before Mom sealed them shut, ready for the oven.
The aroma of baking pies teased her until they emerged, golden brown and piping hot. Mom distracted her, dancing around the kitchen to music played on an old radio until they were cool enough to eat. Even today, she tasted the love in every warm bite of that first pie each fall.
Maddie set down her knife as the baby kicked, her hand reaching down to feel the life stirring inside. She couldn't wait to share the joys of harvest time with her own little one.
Her eyes misted up in a rush of love spanning generations of Nickerson women. Though Mom would be here in a few weeks to help out after the baby came, Maddie picked up the phone, needing to hear her voice.
Instead of saying hello, Mom answered with, "It's pie day, isn't it?"
Happy Mother’s Day everyone! This flash is dedicated to my mom, who, though she baked wonderful bread, couldn’t make a decent pie crust if her life depended on it. She baked cakes, cookies, made donuts, and cooked the best comfort food you could ever wish for. She just couldn’t make pie crust. When she felt the need, she bought premade ones from the grocery store.
Mom was a Nickerson, through and through, coming from a family of strong, independent women who loved their kin fiercely, holding tight through the generations. She was the matriarch of our large extended family after my grandmother died, and I miss her every day. Love you Mom. This one is for you!
What a lovely story 💕
Bbbeeeaaauuutttiiifffuuulll. Memories are gifts, that should only bring joy. But it depends on us to make it that way. Pain goes with my memory of my mother. I made sure it doesn't for my children. Mine would be sweet potato pudding.