Rhubarb Pie

non sense about a memory

Where to begin, awe well I think I'll start with the rhubarb pie that made me cry.

I was a spoiled, rotten child that demanded cherry and was presented rhubarb.

My mother was a fantastic baker and would make pies as her gift of love to us, her family.

I was one, and they were five.

She made a rhubarb pie instead of cherry and I didn't understand why.

My father picked me up as I cried and was so immortally wounded by this and took me outside for fresh air.

He kept me snug on his shoulder, holding me as I slobbered.

Why I felt this was an intentional act to hurt me I guess I don't understand.

Now I see sometimes I felt the love I was given felt conditional and when I didn't receive it through such symbolic actions I would just retract into myself.

I can now rationalize that the pie wasn't about loving me, it was about loving the family as a whole.