excerpt from To Eat a Fig

In the weeks after my sister-in-law died from Covid, baked pies arrived by post, by delivery, from well-meaning friends to my brother. Pies to set on counters, covered with foil. Pies to slide into the refrigerator. Pies to photograph, alongside his ceramic ones. Pies to eat. Bronzed German chocolate studded with coconut flakes. Apple crumb, sandy with sugar. Maybe my brother left the pies around the house, untouched, or swiped the lot into the bin. Maybe my brother plunged his bare hands into the cobbler, scooping up handfuls, wanting more.