Fried Apples

We both
fried apples
for our guests
on the same night.
No doubt her slices
fell faster,
cleaner
into the pan Dad
bought her,
now dark and worn
like her fingers,
while mine limped
with spots
of red skin still
on their backs, into
the pan Dad bought
me, shining on the
stove.
Our houses smelled
the same that night,
800 miles apart,
with our apples
softening in cinnamon-
sprinkled butter-and-
brown sugar syrup,
just like she
taught me.

 

 

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