My fingers tore at the spongy white bread, breaking it into half-inch cubes. The large pan was nearly full, and I fluffed my hands through to search for pieces to shred.

"That's good enough, Maddie," she said. She covered the bread loosely with tin foil and set it on top of the refrigerator. "How about apples next?" I nodded. She handed me a bag of large green apples. Granny Smith.

I dug through our utility drawer and found the peeler. I scraped away the green. I sliced around the pale flesh, chunk by chunk until I reached the core. "Don't forget the lemon," she said. I squeezed the fresh-picked slice over the bowl. Again: peel, cut, squeeze. Again. A dozen more times. "Measure out a cup of sugar and put it in the other bowl. Good. Now add the cinnamon. Just use the measuring spoon to stir. Now use your hands to coat the apples." I loved the sound the apple slices made as they rubbed against each other, friction from cinnamon and sugar making music of the food. And I loved the way my fingers came away sticky, tart, and sweet. But mostly, I loved the way she instructed me what to do, even though I already knew.

I licked my tart, sticky fingers.

"Wash up. We'll do crusts next and get these pies in the oven." When she smiled, her teeth, her cheeks, reminded me of a chipmunk.

I mixed the dough with my now-clean hands, kneading it loosely with my fingertips. "Just a handful. Good." I sprinkled flour over the wax paper and smacked the dough down. Picked it up, flipped it over. Flour. Smack. I dusted the flour over the rolling pin and rolled until it was half the width. Lift, flip, flour, roll. I folded the crust in half and draped it over the pie tin, smoothing it down into the bottom. Along the top, I curled the extra dough into a nice fat edge, then pressed it down with the tines of a fork. "Pretty," she said.

She poured the apples into the tins, her gnarled, bony hands scraping the bottom of the bowl.

"Now the topping. Butter, sugar, flour. Good. Now mix." I squished my hands into the sweet sludge, smiling. More sticky sweet fingers. I crumbled the mixture over the apples. She put the tins in the oven and set the timer.

I chopped the celery. I sliced the onion, crying from the sting.

The next morning, I mixed the stuffing with my hands, a messy mix not to be licked from one's fingers. I scooped and squished the stuffing into the bird. I tied its legs shut. I covered it with foil. I helped her load it into the oven. She took a nap.

I set the table, just two places. Matt had gone to our father's. Matt, stronger than he should have needed to be at 14 years old, forgave. I didn't understand. I hadn't forgiven him for all those years. I couldn't.

"The table looks lovely, Maddie."

I don't have many good memories with my mother. But Thanksgiving, the year before he died, is probably the best one.