The Last Piece

A moment that stayed

How many times have you left the last piece of a delicious dessert so someone else could have it? Or maybe you’ve saved that last piece for yourself to enjoy later, in the quiet of the day, the evening, or even the middle of the night, as my own mother used to do so often.

There were many nights as a teen when I’d come home just before curfew and find my mom sitting at the dining table, eating something sweet. Sometimes it was a piece of cake or pie, a cream puff, or even a simple bowl of cereal. At first, I thought she was waiting up for me. It didn’t take long to realize this was simply something she did.

Back then, I never thought to ask why. Maybe she had trouble sleeping. Maybe it was something with her blood sugar. Or maybe it was just her time. Our mother didn’t get much of that. She had five children, and by the time I was 18, grandchildren were already outnumbering us. Our home was full of family, friends, laughter, noise. Life. I imagine those quiet nighttime moments gave her space to just be still.

On the morning of November 1, 1989, while I was at work, my brother Clark called. He lived in Austin too. I don’t recall all that he said, albeit he was calm and assuring of next steps, what I remember is he said that Mom was in the hospital and we needed to go. He, his wife Chris, and I made the drive to Hillcrest Hospital in Waco.

When we arrived, our younger sister Charity was there, along with our dad and my oldest sister Cheryls husband, Mike. I remember meeting them in the waiting room. I remember my dad explaining that Mom had suffered a brain aneurysm. The doctors had given two options: surgery—with little hope of survival and a high likelihood of severe impairment—or no intervention.

It felt like the air was sucked out of my lungs. How could we not try? But I also knew my mom. She would not have wanted to live that way. My dad made the decision to let her go peacefully, and though it was unimaginably hard, we stood with him.

Our oldest brother was in Indiana and trying to get there. My oldest sister was home caring for Charity’s almost one year old. Everything felt suspended, like time had slowed, but also like it was slipping through our fingers.

I don’t remember what I said to my mom when I sat with her. Isn’t it strange, the things we don’t remember? I think I was in shock, just moving through the motions.

Later that evening, my sister Charity, my brother-in-law Mike, and I left the hospital to go home, we dropped Charity at her home, she was only 17 with an almost one year old, I’m sure her heart was extra heavy knowing her son would celebrate his first birthday without his grandma. I remember Mike saying on the drive, “Joann is going to pull out of this.” I wanted to believe him. But deep down, I knew.

It was dark when we arrived at my parents’ home a white and blue farmhouse on a hill, with a long driveway lined by pecan trees. Earlier that day, my mom had been out there picking up pecans when the headache came on, sending her back inside.

Walking into the house felt unfamiliar. This place that was always so full of warmth suddenly felt still. Quiet in a way that didn’t belong.

I walked through the dining room and paused at the table where we had shared so many meals, conversations, and cups of coffee; my parents often sitting with friends, cigarettes in hand, talking for hours. I made my way into the kitchen. I’m not even sure why-maybe because that’s where my mom so often was.

It was a small kitchen, but it held comfort in its familiarity. And then I noticed something on the counter, covered in foil.

It was a Wednesday, November 1st, Thanksgiving was coming and my mom didn’t wait for special occasions to bake something special. She made pies and cakes from scratch often, just because.

The dish beneath the foil was round. Curious, I lifted it.

There, inside, was one last piece of apple pie.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at it. But the realization came quietly and clearly: this was the last piece of pie my mother would ever make.

I could picture her peeling the apples, something that feels almost like a lost art now, doing it by hand, with a knife. I imagine that’s when the tears began.

I picked up the pie pan and grabbed a fork from the drawer. I didn’t bother with a plate. I wanted it just as it was, just as she had left it. I carried it to the dining table and sat down.

Late at night. Just like she used to.

Was she saving that last piece for herself?

I don’t know.

All I know is that the tears fell as I sat there, eating the last piece of pie that she would ever make