I tried to write a lighthearted piece about pie on the counter because we had pie for dessert tonight, apple pie, with whipped cream, so I wrote a quick poem, a throwaway poem about pie and whipped cream and the entitlement of indulgence, but I left in it Drafts because it’s too frivolous, I have no business talking about pie when somebody’s son got their head cracked open by a gang of cops who laughed and joked and smoked cigarettes afterward, propping him up against a squad car like a mannequin while they celebrated their virility or whatever it is they call it, the propped up man’s mom saying later she was called at four in the morning by a doctor who told her to come see what happened and say goodbye which he knew was the only thing that she could do, so she did, and now all of us, those of us with pie on the counter and everyone else are spectators to this crime and this grief, and wondering what to do next.
Very well written, Jan. Your use of the pie within the context of a child getting his head bashed in made it all too vivid. I sometimes wonder how long my heart can stay whole and alive when it is broken so many times by senseless violence.
I cannot ‘like’ this and it is something I cannot even process as the act of a human, but I know it to be true
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