Thanksgiving pies

I have no way of knowing how my wife feels today. I know people mean well (I confess to doing this, too) whenever they say, "I know how you feel," even when it seems like they're going through a similar situation, but nobody can ever really, really know how another person feels. Those unique pains and joys, though, are gifts.

It's been a little more than two months since Anne's mom died and Thanksgiving is tomorrow and her mom should be baking pies right about now. That was her task and it was her gift. Pies for Thanksgiving. Pies that she would take down to Ft. Wayne, Indiana, where her children and her children's families would spend time with her sister and her sister's children and their families. Over 48 hours, they would spend time out at the bonfire and talk and drink wine and listen to a ghost story and laugh and eat pies. But Anne is making pies this year, along with her sister. She's following her mother's recipe, which I saw on our counter over lunchtime. Her mom sent it to Anne and Anne's siblings a couple years ago via e-mail and there were the specific instructions from what kind of apples to choose (Jonathans) to how long to let it cool. Her sign-off was, "I love you all."

Anne has been peeling green apples all day to get ready. Green apples, the tart kind, the bittersweet kind. You see where I'm going with this. Tomorrow may be more bitter than sweet as her mother's memory will be everywhere. There will be laughter I'm sure and sniffly noses, too, as we share stories and compare notes on memorable thanksgiving with mom/Aunt Gail. The meal may taste different without her there. Tears and turkey probably make an odd mix. But there will be pie.