THE MISSING PIECE OF PIE
/The Missing Piece of Pie
There is a missing piece of pie served at my holiday feast, and I’m not sure why.
Did someone sneak into the refrigerator last night for a midnight snack?
Did someone skip the ham and go straight to dessert?
Maybe someone dropped the pie and put back what was left to cover their tracks?
There is a missing piece of pie in all the pies served at my holiday feast, and I‘m not sure why.
There is a big piece missing from the apple pie. Apple pie was my father’s favorite pie.
There a slender piece of pie missing from the blueberry pie. Blueberry pie was my mother’s favorite pie.
There is nearly a quarter of the pie missing from the mincemeat pie. Mincemeat pie was my grandfather and grandmother’s favorite pie.
There are missing pieces of pie in all the pies, but that is not all that is missing from the holiday feast.
My father loved our holiday feasts. He would laugh and tell stories all night long. I can see him right now, dressed in his cardigan red sweater, wearing a Christmas tie with little red Santas and green and white Christmas trees.
My mother, after working so hard to cook a wonderful feast, would toast to everyone’s happiness and blessings. With her loving smile, she sat at the table happy and proud.
My grandfather and grandmother would tell stories of times long past. My grandfather would talk about attending a one-room schoolhouse and working late into the night changing homes from gas lighting to the “new” electrical lighting. My grandmother listened intently to everyone, and would add her own stories of being one the first AT&T phone operators.
My smile and laughter are now missing at my holiday feast; replaced by tears now streaming down my swollen face. As I look upon each pie now missing a piece, I recall the stories, the laughter, the love by those who are missing from the table, and from my life.
The missing piece of pie.
Until Next Friday,
Photo by sheri silver on Unsplash