I dream of teaching my own daughter
To flour the pin
And flatten the crust from center to edge,
As you taught us.
Julie's perennial birthday pies
Were always perfect:
Cream and raspberry in ribbons,
Delicate crust cut cleanly.
But I think of your countertop,
Never close to clear
of knick-knacks, pens, and papers
Your lazy daughters left.
Pots and plates and peanut-buttered knives
Dropped in at any moment
Next to pans left for another to clean
Always cluttered your sink.
Even the cat thwarted your efforts,
Trailing pellets from the pantry
Through crumbs from our stolen sweets,
Wastefully certain of his next meal.
You found Julie in that fortress countless times,
Fingers deep in sugar or pecans.
You caught your other daughters less often,
But we were thieves and you knew.
Your kitchen has not been sacred ground
Since the first of us first walked,
And never again will be,
Until the last at last takes flight.
I dream of teaching my own daughter
To scrub counters
And sweep floors
And my pie crust, if I trust you,
Might someday be perfect.
