Apple Pie

May 14, 2009
By Terumi Tashima BRONZE, Hawthorn Woods, Illinois
Terumi Tashima BRONZE, Hawthorn Woods, Illinois
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

The thick smell of apple pie
floats and swivels around the hallway,
forming water molecules in my mouth.

I walk through he long hallway
toward the kitchen, following the trail of spicy cinnamon
and sweet apple dancing in the air.

At the kitchen door
I peek, push it open.
The back of my father, usually wide and strong now small,
His broad shoulders facing me,
wearing that blue apron.

I thought of my mother,
her slender back facing me with the same blue apron.
her long brown hair tied behind her back,
Her slender fingers,
Pacing the loose hair strand behind her ear.
When I hugged her, the smell of cinnamon
and apple filled my nostrils.
Her spicy sweet scent
welcoming with warmth.
My mother, the smell of apple pie.

My father turns his back
Noticing my starring blue eyes.
He walks to the kitchen chair and sits,
Gesturing his hands on his lap.

I walk toward him to the sweet smell of cinnamon
swirls and surrounds him.
He picks up my body hugging me close,
setting my chin on his broad shoulders.
I smell my mother’s scent.
I still smell the apple pie.


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