8:27am. Still in bed. Making lists
in my head. (Drag a comb across my head....)
Breakfast, then the baking marathon begins.
O splendid cloudless summer day!
Nelson was two weeks late being born
and I remember that August as relentlessly
unending and hotter than a pie-fueled fire.
On my actual due date, I picked blackberries
(I was puffed and swollen and lumbery and wobbly)
and then baked four pies and invited all
the neighbors in for a pie feast.
One of my male neighbors (who shall go
unnamed!) whispered in my ear,
"I should have married a woman like you!"
Me, nine months pregnant, in my sweaty,
smoky, pie-kitchen. Now, nineteen years
hence, mercifully not gravid, it's
once again the hour of the pie.