Apple pie

Ginger rain

The scent of apple pie gently filled the kitchen, settling on the peach-colored curtains, the floral tablecloth, and hiding in the cracks of the wooden floor, under the colorful runners. Powdered sugar had fallen onto the golden crust, as if winter had lent me a jar of snowflakes.

"Another masterpiece, the flaws of which will go straight to my hips," Amy sighed dramatically, pushing her chair back and plopping down, rubbing her face sleepily.

"If you don't want to, I won't even offer."

"Come on, who else but my sister will take the full brunt?"

I smiled slightly. Amy was so attentive and delicate about her figure, but just as meticulous and careful in controlling the sweet stockpile in the house, to the point where she could run on the treadmill while eating a poppy seed roll. A plate with a slice of pie appeared before her, a scoop of ice cream beside it. She inhaled the aroma of baked apples, cinnamon, and lemon zest deeply. "This is just the Mona Lisa of cakes," she sighed, closing her eyes in pleasure as she savored the pie.

Pleased with my work, I made myself a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the veranda. The freshness after the rain made me wrap myself in a cardigan, but it didn't scare away my desire to greet the morning in the open air. The breeze from the lake bent the tops of the yellowing trees, played in the reeds, and brought dry leaves to my feet. The hanging swings creaked. My heart felt heavy.

Voices came from the kitchen; it seemed Amy's husband and her parents had woken up. A couple of days ago, the whole family had gathered for Dad's birthday. It was loud, joyful, and in the evening, after turning off the lights, they brought out the cake. I had spent several days perfecting it. It's always nice to be part of someone's happiness and celebration, and a simple apple pie can make an ordinary morning feel festive when everyone comes down to the scent of cinnamon, mugs clink, and questions like "How much sugar do you want?" or "Have you seen my bunny mug? I only drink my coffee from it in the mornings" float around, along with the usual: "Yes, Bill, it's important!"

"Good morning, Mom," I smiled as I walked into the house.

"Thanks for breakfast, dear," she responded, setting out mugs for everyone.

I headed upstairs to my room under the roof. It reminded me of a cozy attic. I couldn't help but remember the red-haired boy who used to live next door. We were close friends, but completely innocently and naively, like children. He used to call me Sparrow Beth, never explaining why. I always wondered if it had to do with the room under the roof, resembling a bird's nest, or my chubby cheeks and the mass of chestnut-gray hair that curled in every direction.

Now, however, I no longer had chubby cheeks or such wild curls. After my first haircut, my hair fell in soft waves, which caused my grandmother a small tragedy. I hadn't seen that boy either; his parents had divorced, and his father stayed in the house next door, while he went away with his mother.

To be fair, I can say that our dads are good friends, if you can call it friendship at their age—silent companions in watching the still water and rare hunting trips into the forest.

The round window looked out over the lake, letting sunlight play across the ceiling and walls, which were decorated with all sorts of pictures in quirky frames. Somewhere there were owls framed in wooden frames shaped like pine branches, somewhere ferns were growing. Everything here was as it used to be, except for the suitcase I had brought with me for the weekend, which sat glumly, as if it felt like an outsider.

It smelled of dust. No one had wiped the shelves or the racks for a while. I opened the window and climbed out onto the veranda roof. My place of strength, where memories from my childhood and youth reached out. Now, though, all I could do was traverse the vast plains of melancholy that had suddenly overwhelmed me. Life didn't seem meaningless, but I longed for change, as if something was missing. What troubled me the most, however, was the fate of my store. The big city didn't accept me, and I didn't accept it either, which was probably the only thing that connected us expenses exceeded income, and eventually, the pale blue "Dream" sign now seemed like a mistake or a misstep.