duke baptiste }} district nine }} cb

Burning cherry. Blackened dough. I won't ever forget the smell or how much smoke poured from in between the oven's opened door as I choked on darkened air. It was heavy, sinking into my lungs and I was real scared the whole house was gonna burn down. Mama never forgot to slip a cherry pie into our oven just before she left for work, leaving it to bake until she got home some hours later. And I remember being so angry when the fire alarm went off and I burnt the palms of my hands pulling my creation from its molten grave. I couldn't even recognize the heart pattern I had so carefully pressed into the dough the night before. I was gonna yell at Mama for the first time in my life. I'd made up my mind, talking to the mirror with furrowed brows and pointed words. Kids aren't supposed to reprimand their parents, see, but I think an exception is earned when they almost burn the house down.

I waited for hours.

And hours.

I never did get to talk to her. She didn't come home that night. Or the night after. And the night after that is when I stopped being angry and got real scared. I had to keep asking Billie if they got lost when I knew that it was their heartbeats that had found themselves wandering the labyrinth of the damned. And I know you're not supposed to lie but it wasn't hurting anyone to believe that they'd come waltzing through the door at any minute and I could give the both of them a piece of my mind about how irresponsible it is to leave three children home alone.

I know why you're not supposed to lie anymore. The truth is so much more painful when you can recall just how blissful ignorance can be.

Old Albert down the alley really loved the cherry pies I used to make, with hearts pressed into the dough and caramelized sugar on top but I haven't made one since mama left that morning.

And I won't make one 'til she comes home.