Homemade apple pie was my little girl’s favorite dessert and she never missed an opportunity to watch me make one. Her eyes would sparkle in anticipation of the mouth-watering gift from the gods, the divine taste of hot apples swimming in a syrupy bath of cinnamon and wrapped in a buttery crust. The pies couldn’t bake fast enough.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
The clicking of the film feeding through my memory’s projector keeps a steady rhythm with the little girl on the swing. Her hands clench the chains and she leans back to push forward, her eyes fixed on the clouds above. With each forward thrust, there’s a sense of independence, of flight, of carefree abandon. When the momentum shifts, just before that invisible force pulls the swing back, her body stops in an exhilarating nanosecond of weightless anticipation. In surreal slow motion, the cycle repeats.