Rhubarb Pie

Rhubarb Pie for breakfast and the tones of home linger softly on my tongue. Each bite is infused with more than rhubarb and sugar, but rather the spice of memories filling in the spaces. The weight of history presses on my tongue. I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like. To someone who has never had it, I cannot even imagine what it must be like. But I am the world’s best food critic if you want to know what rhubarb laced with memories tastes like. 

I can tell you about seeing my mom chop it up into bite-size pieces and what that feels like. My eyes are barely peering over the counter top, her soft beautiful belly just at head height. The perfect height where I can lean gently in and let her take all my weight. 

I can tell you what the garden tastes like. My small feet pressing an inch down into the freshly turned earth, baked by the sun. Scooping up a handful of dirt only to let it drop between my fingertips. The feeling of a tiny weed squished between sausage fingers. 

I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like.

But rhubarb pie--I can’t tell how much sugar is added, or whether the dough was made correctly, or whether there is too much cinnamon. 

All I can taste is the sweetness of innocence, the pillow of my mothers belly, the brittle warmth of summertime, and dirt under tiny toes. All mixed together, joined together by unlikely forces, dancing together in a never-ending parade.

Home.