Sweet Potato Pie
My last phone call to you,
I talked and you could not
If you could speak, I would have asked,
how’d you get the potatoes so smooth
I would have searched for writing
paper and a pen, taken down the recipe.
My sister is there with you, telling you
that it’s me on the phone, and I thought of frozen
custard, already missed, already nostalgic,
as was the process of making the ice cream:
We four girls churning the antiquated
zinc-coated ice cream maker
paddles laden with vanilla custard
we greedily scraped the frozen
remnants from the maker with teaspoons.
Later yet, we’d eat the dessert from sugar cones.
I wish you could speak, and instead of telling you
that I remember you prepping, carefully cubing
onions, celery, carrots, and slicing
cabbage for your meticulous slaw,
I told you I loved you. Instead of recounting
how for me, you did not argue or ridicule,
but made vegetarian dressing for family feasts.
That was you loving me. And what bothers
me yet is not that you weren’t capable
of saying goodbye back to me, or that you
were close to your last sweet breath,
but the loss of the best sweet potato pie.
I talked and you could not
If you could speak, I would have asked,
how’d you get the potatoes so smooth
I would have searched for writing
paper and a pen, taken down the recipe.
My sister is there with you, telling you
that it’s me on the phone, and I thought of frozen
custard, already missed, already nostalgic,
as was the process of making the ice cream:
We four girls churning the antiquated
zinc-coated ice cream maker
paddles laden with vanilla custard
we greedily scraped the frozen
remnants from the maker with teaspoons.
Later yet, we’d eat the dessert from sugar cones.
I wish you could speak, and instead of telling you
that I remember you prepping, carefully cubing
onions, celery, carrots, and slicing
cabbage for your meticulous slaw,
I told you I loved you. Instead of recounting
how for me, you did not argue or ridicule,
but made vegetarian dressing for family feasts.
That was you loving me. And what bothers
me yet is not that you weren’t capable
of saying goodbye back to me, or that you
were close to your last sweet breath,
but the loss of the best sweet potato pie.
DeMisty D. Bellinger teaches creative writing, women's studies, and African American studies. Her writing has appeared in many places, including WhiskeyPaper, The Rumpus, and Blue Fifth Review. Her chapbook, Rubbing Elbows, is available from Finishing Line Press. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and for a Pushcart. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and twin daughters.
Art: Public Domain