Blue PiePlate

 

M. had delivered a freshly baked apple pie several days ago. The empty dish, washed, was on the counter. ready for return. Last night, while I was on the computer, Dave appeared, holding the plate and a dish towel, remarking how intricate the design of the plate was, and how  many levels needed special cleaning. He seemed absorbed by it, and wanted to talk about it. I, busy with something else, just said that it needed to be returned, along with another blue dish, and added that the plate had once been Dorothy's. 

  So we're in the car, setting off to  return the dishes. Dave is not in the mood to talk, and I regret not having responded much to his previous comments. The road is long and winding, and snow has  fallen, so of course I am a little concerned about the driving conditions. The route is familiar, but seems rather treacherous, and at one point Dave chooses a longer way around rather than the more familiar direct route. I ask him why, but he nonchalantly dismisses the question. We continue, in the oncoming darkness and snowfall. We both realize now that we are returning the plate to Dorothy. It seems we are never going to get there. And we don't.