Rolling out the dough across the floured countertop becomes her silent lament. Time was the kitchen would filled with bustling bodies. Twice yearly they baked pies — fall apple; summer blueberry. Fruit would be harvested and sorted, washed and peeled, tiny hands sticky with everything.
Fewer local farms now, fruit comes in small plastic supermarket boxes. Sighing, she drops flattened pastry into a glass dish, pale sides overhanging. Her late husband would always reminisce upon pies of the past, still his “Blue Ribbons” went to each resting by the windowsill.
A 99-word story for Charli at Carrot Ranch. This week’s prompt was… Pie.