Nonfiction by Summer Hammond
The summer I turned ten, Mom made her first rhubarb pie. It happened to be the Fourth of July. And we were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
That evening, Dad propped a ladder against the side of the house. Let’s have an adventure. We climbed onto the roof. Dad, my sister, then me. Mom brought the pie up, nestled in a backpack. We circled around her. She lifted the towel, revealing her masterpiece. Sunset glow, rich ruby juices. Mom, it’s beautiful. Mom, it’s art. She carved the pie into thick, luxurious wedges. We dipped our spoons in, blissful. Sitting together on sun-warmed tiles, cross-legged. A roof-top picnic, sugared crust, and sweet tang of rhubarb. Fireworks bloomed a meadow of sparks over our heads.
We were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Was it a sin to watch the fireworks?
Even if you happened to be sitting on your roof, eating rhubarb pie?
Was it a sin to watch them, shyly, from beneath your eyelids, from your peripheral, in quick, furtive glances, spoonful after spoonful?
Or was it only a sin to find them beautiful, to want them to go on and on, to see them even with your eyes closed, your lids like dark palettes, the fireworks painting wildflowers across the stars?
We were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
We did not swear our loyalty to any human government. We didn’t vote. We didn’t serve in the military. We didn’t sing or stand for the national anthem. We didn’t say the Pledge of Allegiance.
We did not celebrate the Fourth of July.
We celebrated the pie. We celebrated being happy together.
Every year, from then on, we called the Fourth of July – Rhubarb Pie Day.
In my secret heart, I loved them, and let sin explode.
Summer Hammond grew up in rural Iowa and Missouri, one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. After parting ways with the faith, she went on to achieve a BA in Literature, and earned her MFA from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. She won the 2023 New Letters Conger Beasley Jr. Award for Nonfiction.
