12/26/2024
I BRING A PIE TO MY SON’S GRAVE EVERY YEAR — IT HAS ALWAYS REMAINED UNTOUCHED, BUT THIS TIME, THE PLATE WAS EMPTY WITH A NOTE ON IT
For 23 years, I've kept the same tradition. Every year on this date, I bake my son Henry's favorite apple cinnamon pie and take it to his grave. It's a simple recipe, but it meant everything to him. It's how I remember him, how I keep him close.
Henry passed away in a tragic accident when he was just 17. Ever since then, this ritual has been my way of staying connected to him, even though the years have passed. The grief never really goes away—it just softens. And making that pie, saying my quiet goodbye each year, gives me a small sense of peace.
Yesterday, like every year before, I brought the pie to his grave. I sat there, feeling the familiar wave of sadness, but I wiped away the tears and smiled through it, saying my goodbye.
Usually, when I go back the next day to clean up, the pie is untouched, spoiled by the weather. A silent reminder that he's not here anymore. But this time, something felt off as I walked toward the grave.
When I got there, my heart stopped. The plate was clean. Completely empty. And then I saw it—a small, folded piece of paper sitting where the pie had been.
My hands were shaking as I picked it up. Slowly, I opened the note, my breath catching as I read the words inside.👇
