"A Cup of Coffee and a Piece of Pie"
The house is emptying out, the last goodbyes called softly in deference to grief. I barely acknowledge them, but I’m allowed to check out today. It’s my right as the widow.
The kitchen is littered with paper plates, the remains of casseroles, coffee cakes. I haven’t touched them. I’ve barely moved since we returned from the grave.
My daughter asks, “Do you want to lie down?”
I shake my head. I want to end the day the way we did together for the last twenty-five years. With a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. From now on, alone.
Wonderful drabble, AmyLiz! Heartbreaking, but wonderful.
Aw. Thanks, guys. I don't know why I went there, actually.
Loved Sail and Aimee and Jilli's drabbles, myself.
I may never look at pie as something simple again.
I liked yours a lot, AmyLiz. For some reason, my mind keeps going to serial killers and pie.
Steph, did you get an email from me about next week. There's no rush, of course, what with the next week and all, but I just realized I may have sent it to the wrong email.
I did get it, and I was just (mostly) away from the computer all weekend, so I owe a lot of people e-mail.
In any case, I can definitely do the topic next week. Though it will probably help if you can remind me.
And that was the right e-mail addy.
My usual dinner - a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, with a square of cheesefood melted over the pie. The coffee tastes like the bottom of a tar pit, quintessential truck-stop coffee.
This is the other side of the American Dream, isn’t it? The endless road trip, criss-crossing the continent with the only constants being the greasy truck-stop food and the tired waitresses in their aprons and comfy shoes. The landscape varies, but the humans stay the same, with only their accents to tell you where you are.
I’m tired, but the road beckons, dragging me on.
