or 23 years, Nancy had faithfully honored her son Henry’s memory with a beloved ritual. Ever since the tragic accident that took his life at 17, she visited his grave each year on the anniversary, bringing along his favorite apple and cinnamon pie. The scent of apples and cinnamon always brought her back to moments in the kitchen when young Henry would light up at the sight of the freshly baked pie, eagerly asking, “Is it ready yet, Mom?” Baking it and bringing it to him became her way of holding onto those memories, a small source of comfort despite the constant ache of loss.
Now 61, Nancy carefully carried the warm pie to the cemetery once again. Somehow, the dish seemed heavier in her hands this year, weighed down by time and grief. When she arrived, she placed the pie on Henry’s grave and ran her fingers along the smooth stone, as familiar as his touch had once been. “I miss you every day,” she whispered, her voice soft with sorrow. “I baked your favorite pie again… I wish we could share it just one more time.”
