by Amy B. Miller
The shell wasn’t soggy.
The cream didn’t split. It didn’t
fall to the floor, or
get eaten by someone rude.
It triggered a memory:
I make cream puffs.
Sometimes.
Mostly when showing off or
on special occasions. I tend to overfill
the shells with excessive amounts
of cream. Generous,
is how I think of it.
One bite and cream explodes from
the choux in a river down your chin:
it overflows
onto your
innocent
clothing.
If they didn’t taste so damn good, it
would be tragic. And less funny. My brother
loved to tell this story. Therefore, I
loved to make him cream puffs:
overfilled.
Today, I saw a cream puff and
it became simply a confection. I
would never again hear the story. Laugh
at my own overzealous baking. Revel
in my brother’s laugh
– guffaw.
He told this story a thousand times.
Every time, I laughed. He is gone now
and cream puffs make me cry:
they
are
no
longer
sweet.
About the Author
Amy B. Miller is an artist of many mediums and an avid reader. By day, she freelances as a graphic design artist. By night, she traverses oceans of literature, or samples the niche cultures of Rochester, N.Y. Amy is known for her charm and wit. She comes from a long line of storytellers. Everywhere she goes, she finds opportunities to distill the human condition
into verse.
Amy explores themes of grief and humor in her piece, “Today, I Cried Over a Cream Puff.” She dedicates this poem to Rob Williamson, her late brother and best friend.
He told this story a thousand times.
Every time, I laughed. He is gone now
and cream puffs make me cry.
they
are
no
longer
sweet