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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It was her kitchen, her family, and my newly-married man, and I aimed to please her by properly being fed. With a smile and a swish, “We have butterscotch pudding pie for dessert!” My brand spanking new mother-in-law said. Her excitement had no knowledge of the instant memory of horribleness that leaped instantly to my own quickly confused head. I tried to take an invisible pretend bite while the family all watched, eagerly waiting but my traitorous mouth played dead. Tears filled my eyes, as I was unnaturally smothered with the sad, angry hurt of my long-ago favorite butterscotch pie. The feelings came so damned fast, I could not stop them at all or even slow them down, and they surrounded me, and made me cry. When I was eleven, my family of origin was in the kitchen, laughing, and playing, and goofing around. When the phone rang, I was asked to get it, because it was wire-attached to the wall, and I was the closest to the retched sound. I had never heard my mother wail or keen until that day, certainly never heard her yell, “DICK!” or fall without any game to play. Our big Dad jumped up faster than we had ever seen, grabbed rag-doll Mom before she hit the kitchen counter in a not so great way. We all turned pure white, which was odd because we were usually pink. Fascinated, yet, hungry, I took my first bite, and heard the words “Mom is dead, and Dad’s dead too.” We kids started shaking, sad and scared. Grandma and Grandpa were our king and queen. When things calmed down in a second or two that damned butterscotch pie tasted like glue. Everyone wailed wild-eyed, faces red. The cousins came, and we huddled together and cried and screamed how great it was sob, sob, that they both went to heaven. Yes, I know that was many years ago but when my feelings took my body over loud and clear, they clamped my mouth tightly shut, because I was back to 11.
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