The last piece of pie.

It  will come to pass, one day, a final slice. Perhaps a large wedge of pecan laden sweetness, perfectly browned on top. Melanoidins remind me what I live for. Maybe a tart key lime with pillowy clouds of Chantilly made by a cute girl or bear-like man; served at a potluck when I only brought wine because I was late and didn’t have time to cook.

It could be something I made myself. A pale imitation of my mom’s famous pumpkin pie that I bake for my brother Gabriel during the holidays. It’s his favorite and she lives so far away.

Would a slice of pizza count? The word means “pie” in Italian and this meditation is under my control. No, that’s silly. Pizza is savory, though delicious, especially when piled with sausage and onion; the favorite of a friend from Australia. He died too young.

There is a chance that this last dessert will be something new entirely, a confection I’ve never seen before. Something from Asia or the Middle East that has yet to hit the American scene. A future lust that I haven’t grown into yet. Something that will change me; change the way I look at the world and every experience I’ve had.

A terrifying thought is that it has already happened and that store bought slice of mince that I tried on a whim was the one. It wasn’t very good, but the ice cream was. I put maple syrup on top and ate it in bed with my girlfriend. We left the dishes dirty in the sink. Maybe that was enough.

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