I’m ready to shake things up, are you? The bulk of this post was written to honour a seemingly insignificant part of my youth that I miss dearly. It is in admiration AND admonishment of the changes we all must face. i realized I may not be made more popular by sharing this fond memorial – but I know I’m an oddity, and I like me for it.
I don’t know when I started asking for burnt crust
if I ever did.
But momma knew, and she always did it right.
My grilled cheese on wheat, with the cheese on hand.
Momma burnt the bread, and perfect overflow of cheese.
It was not in error, my siblings sandwiches were golden
But, mine wonderfully charred.
And it was true of the pot pie.
The flaky, saucy, concoctions,
better built savoury than sweet.
Every little bit a surprise gift
to be torn open and gobbled.
Scorched crust, best, last.
Today I am 31 and 7/12 years old
and, it marks the first time in 16 years
that I ate a pot pie.
Because I had been afraid of myself.
what I was, and was not.
As good as it was,
I could not burn my crust.
Because,
though I am now back at home
within myself
I am halted by circumstance
into a kitchen-less upstairs room.
Because I was brazen enough to pursue
a better self, independent in basic care.
The dignity freely promised by the country but
not delivered without steep shipping & handling fees.
But, I have not forgotten my burnt crust.
And, I am not going to be burnt by circumstance –
it fuels me. And the memory warms me to believe.
To fight, and hope, in the name of freedom,
To burn my crust.
SickyBeat 