Dear Sylvia, 

It's been a long time since I have written and hope you are doing well. Fathers' Day is this weekend and I pray you and all the fathers in your life are prospering.

I have been thinking back to one of the earliest Fathers' Days I remember. It was the first time I saw my mother cry.  It was the Saturday before Fathers’ Day and she had spent all morning slaving over a lemon meringue pie as a sweet surprise for Daddy.

I watched from my seat at the pickled-oak kitchen table in the corner of our tiny kitchen.  Daddy had just finished putting on the last of the knotty pine cupboard doors for Mama.  Chrome handles that matched the trim on the yellow formica countertop were on an angle at the bottom of each door. 

Mama squeezed the ripe oval fruits into a glass measuring cup until just the right amount of juice was had.  Six lemon halves, ready to discard, lay on the counter top.  Mama’s capable hands were shiny with the oily fruit.

She cooked and stirred and cracked eggs and then, “Ding!”  Time for the crust to come out of the oven, all lightly browned, slightly risen and bumpy between its fork pricks.  Mama tilted the bowl of lemon pudding and scooped it into the flaky shell. 

After much beating, the meringue was ready to pile onto her creation.  Then back into the oven it went.  Mama kept as close an eye on the pie as I kept on her.  Mama could do anything with a bowl and a spoon!  Her kitchen was her stage and I was her audience.

Finally the timer went off.  Mama grabbed a potholder in each hand and opened the oven door wide.  The sweet, sticky delight was browned and ready.  Mama lifted it into the air but the pie wobbled in her grasp.  Mama shrieked and tried to catch her creation but it wasn’t to be saved.  This marvellously creamy, sweetly-sour delight lay upside down in the middle of the opened oven door.

Mama knelt down beside her creation as if she were going to say a Hail Mary, but instead, Mama cried.  I had never seen Mama cry before.  It took me by surprise.  This woman who was composed each and every day; this woman who was fastidious about the state of her home; this strong, capable woman crumpled down onto the floor and sobbed.

I wanted to comfort her but I didn’t know how. How does one comfort someone from whom comfort was not received?  I felt like a fish trying to fly.  I knew how to rock my crying baby brother, but had no idea what to do for a crying mother.  

Soon Mama was up and searching for things to help her dispose of the mess.  I couldn’t help her.  I would just get in the way.  I wanted to say how I felt.  I wanted to hug her and tell her I was sorry and that all would be okay.  But no words formed in my mouth.  I still have difficulty with that; with saying what I have on my mind.  The words get caught in my throat and nothing comes out.  Perhaps that is why I take to writing?

Take care, dear friend. Talk to you again soon!

Love, Peggy