Mud Pie Memory

Where are my mud pies?

I had them here a second ago.

Crunched-up oak leaves as the meat,

Slivers of yellowing birch as the cheese.

My tea parties were fabulous

With my cups of curling maple leaf,

A fine and classic porcelain.

Shavings of sycamore bark make my guests,

Marking their features with bits of charcoal

Dad missed from the outdoor fireplace.

So many memories at the picnic table,

Beer pancakes on the griddle in the summer,

With watermelon and celery with raisins.

What? It tastes just like peanut butter...

Well, I thought it did.

Time has a habit of smoothing some memories.

So I don't talk about Dad swearing about the raw batter

Or the drunk great-uncle crashing the party.

But the keg of root beer for the kids?

And the watermelon spitting contests?

Twilight and the trickling of the river,

That dratted katydid freaking the littles,

Fireflies and bats chasing them in aerial com...bat.

(Sorry, can't resist the pun.)

Homemade macaroni salad,

And seven-layer salad,

Sorry, Mom, it was gross,

I only ate a bite because I knew you'd be hurt if I didn't.

The cherry cheesecake from the box mix,

The topping was the best part.

Yes, neighbor, I did see you sneak the whole extra pie home!

The picnic table rotted away decades ago,

The leaves raked away by Dad's aging hands,

But I still walk the river with my husband,

Looking for snakes and frogs

Like the tomboy I was. Am.

There are eagles now, and herons,

And a granddaughter to spoil.

Come summer,

My mom and dad will set up her wading pool,

And I will teach her how to make mud pies.