Henry, Nancy’s kid, was everything to her. Her existence without him was unthinkable. The terrible event that killed Henry had occurred 23 years before.
In remembrance of him, she prepared his favorite pie on this day each year and delivered it to his grave. This year, however, something unexpected was on the horizon.
Nancy, now 61, had never missed this day in 23 years. She continued their custom by baking her late son’s favorite pie each year and delivering it to his cemetery.
The pie, a straightforward but ideal blend of apples and cinnamon, had been Henry’s favorite since he was a little boy.
Every time mother prepared it, the aroma reminded me of Henry running into the kitchen and his eyes glimmering. For them, baking the pie had been a treasured custom that they both respected.
