It was a blueberry pie, but nothing ever was only a blueberry pie—like this—already, though, cut into pieces—lost—like words and people and trees cut into things as if they weren’t already made, with no effort, of hours and years and as he forked a piece of pie into his mouth, his tongue and the blue sweetness—there—flowed into a whole new river and he blinked back tears because what could he possibly say that would say the rest, too? This blueberry pie was not a blueberry pie and Thank You would be misconstrued.
All, certainly, is too ambitious, but the pie more than the pie did spill past its limits, not an object but, if anything, a symbol that announced a vast weave of happenings. He would leave later that day, get on a plane and fly away, after a summer that had arrived, yesterday, to a blueberry field beneath the sun and they, between, picking. When picking blueberries, you don’t just grab them, one by one; you cup your hand behind a bunch and beckon with your fingers like a rake gathering leaves from the deep green grass, the trees, clouds and sky, all beckoned to gather and be, together, itself, like a blueberry pie, until it isn’t and is, instead, the sun on his neck, sweat, and her emerging into view. The sky was blue and her shorts were blue and his eyes were blue and he watched her, picking blueberries, picking blueberries, picking blueberries, and he knew, secretly, that the blue mysteries of this world were too clear and big to ever think or say.
And when we called it a day, it was blueberries, and she made the day into a pie. She took the time to make a pie with the day. The day was a pie. A blueberry pie. Made with her time, the way she cares, and our day, in the blueberries, picked during the summer, which would end the next day, in the middle of our lives between the grass and the sun and birth and death and this is how, really, a blueberry pie is.
So as he forked a piece of pie into his mouth, his tongue and the blue sweetness, and kissing, all that kissing, thank you, yes, for the pie more than the pie, the time, your time, our time, this summer beyond coming and going and the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me.
This is not a pie.