Someone woke early and carefully rolled out the dough. She filled it with apples, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, and rhubarb. And sugar, the perfect amount of sugar. It baked perfectly, not a hint of black on the crust. The smell of warm berries filled the kitchen as it cooked. She waited. She washed the dishes, sipped her coffee, let the dogs out to run. When it was cool, she carefully placed it in a box and carried it over to the barn. She set it on a shelf next to the pumpkins and squash. There was no guarantee that someone would find it, buy it, bring it home. I savored it after the kids went to bed, all the while wondering who this stranger was? This person who wakes and bakes and leaves a perfect pie on a shelf, just in case someone needs sweet comfort on their way back from nowhere.
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