Earlier in the day my mom had baked my dad's favorite raspberry/blackberry pie and had dropped it off at T-bones to surprise him. There was no way she would trust a restaurant with a birthday dessert. It was a glorious pie. The crust was flaky and tender. The filling glittered with red and was sweet with just the right hint of tartness. Topped with vanilla ice cream it was the perfect ending to a completely gluttonous meal.
Big Hands endeared himself to my parents by eating more than everyone and moaning in ecstasy while inhaling the pie. It was a really good time.
Unfortunately our exit from the restaurant was a bit shaky. We all walked our very full bellies slowly to the door trying not to pop the buttons off our jeans or make attention-getting grimaces.
Mom was holding the half-empty pie plate in her hands and somehow lost her footing on the cement curb. Her feet flew out from under her; she landed flat on her back, bruised her tailbone and cracked her head on the sidewalk.
The hostess came running as Dad and Big Hands helped her sit up. Mom was stunned and in obvious pain. She put her hand up to her throbbing head, gave a little moan and then looked around wildly.
I leaned down to her. "What is it Mom? Are you okay? Do you need help?"
She looked up at all three of us with tears in her eyes and asked,
"Is the pie okay?"
