Lemon Meringue Pie
Distant-
Remembering the yellow of midday sun,
white caps formed on the surface,
edges toasted to golden brown?
Wanting,
watching the serrated blade cut through crisp meringue,
the soft center, to hard crust-
angle wider behind the center point- more, more, and yet more.
No one else gets it-
the elegance, and yes, poetry of this finely crafted delicacy.
They have little appreciation,
and less anticipation for the cacophony of firing taste buds to come.
The plate waits before her, delicate blue flowers weave around the sweet confection,
crumbs mark the trail of the spatula.
Steam rises off the black surface in the cup on the saucer.
She allows a shaky breath, slowly exhaling through parted lips,
as everyone is granted their chosen slice:
rhubarb, apple, pumpkin, and the lesser-pecan.
A cue given, forks lift,
smiles and laughter fade as her fork glides down through the layers:
crisp white meringue,
bright lemon center,
light brown crust-
a trio, meant for each other, slips off the fork,
onto her tongue, firing synapses,
explosions of pleasure,
sweet and tart, grounded by the floury layer.
She forces the fork back onto the plate,
waves of lemony goodness washing through her.
A sip of the hot black coffee brings the table back into focus,
but like those souls traveling toward the bright light, she resists coming back,
preferring the ecstasy of the sweetly-tart pie.
Fork poised, staring down-
only crumbs meet her gaze.
Bereft, the plate.
Empty, the cup.
Lungs heavy, sluggish from this lemon feast,
it was finished.
A cruel twist of fate.
What happened to the slow, drawn-out enjoyment?
The first bite is what happened.
She knew the next time might never come.
Oh, but she’d talk about it, try to relive it,
yet soon it would fade, and become,
Just one more fond memory…
“Is there anymore coffee?”
(Graphics from Pixaby except the plate which was me.)
writer.
Sally Gerard 