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Apple Crisp

George returned from his walk and found the apple crisp in the fridge. He did not recall buying the crisp, but George put it in the oven to reheat. Microwaves ruined the topping. He put the kettle on the stove and opened the newspaper to the lifestyles section. Heart attacks! Leading killer of adult women. He pushed the paper away. Reading about it would not bring Mary back. The kettle took forever to boil. George squinted at the oval kitchen clock with tick marks instead of numbers. Pretty, but not practical.

"I liked the old clock better," he said. No one answered. The recollection of Mary's death stabbed George in the gut. He looked around the kitchen for comfort, but nothing seemed familiar. George's heart raced, he was in the wrong house. If his daughter, Anna, found out she would start up that nonsense about the seniors home. George folded the paper and searched for oven mitts.

"Dad!" How had Anna found him?

"I'm sorry," George apologized. "Tell the people who live here it was a mistake."

"It's okay Dad, you live with me now." Anna turned the stove knobs to zero and plugged in the kettle. She retrieved the crisp from the cold oven and reheated it in the microwave.

George frowned at the soggy-crusted mess in front of him. "You've ruined the apple crisp."

"It's rhubarb, Dad. Rhubarb."

Story by:

Hermine (Minkee) Robinson

wordflights.wordpress.com

4 October 2013