lying to my mother about the lemon pie

before

my mother passed on,

entering

her version of heaven,

unlimited

yarn

and puzzles yet to be

put together,

doll houses

ready to be constructed

with her delicate

hands,

every room with a parrot

in a cage,

she called

and asked if i was

coming

over for Sunday dinner.

i was 60 at the time.

i said yes.

she said i made you a lemon

meringue pie,

to which i said.

great, although i never liked

the taste of one.

she bought me one

once when i was twelve

and she had forgotten

my birthday,

(with seven children it was forgivable)

the store was out of cakes,

she said,

with tears in her eyes,

but i told her

great, putting my small

hand on her shoulder.

it's okay mom, i like lemon pie

even better

than cake.

why tell her the truth at this point?