The day of Thanksgiving crawls closer to us, and I’m in the kitchen alone. As usual, I bake the wonderful, mouth craving, pumpkin pie you always ask for every year. Adding ingredients step by step, like my dad had taught me before. Every year, the day before Thanksgiving, is always the same- but somehow different. The smell of the delicious spices fill my nose, and I breath out a soft sigh. My stomach tells me it craves it, but my mind knows I must save it for you tomorrow. I pour the insides of the pie inside it shell, and let it bake.
   

I sit on the counter, thinking of your voice when I arrive to you with your pie, hearing you say, “Is this for me? I know it’s delicious because you made it,” and you place a kiss on my cheek. I smile at the thought of seeing your face tomorrow, when our family sits all together at the table, and I would end up smiling. Oh, how your smile lights up the room, my dear grandfather, and we all laugh from joy filling our hearts. I get off the counter, and go into my room.
          

A few years have passed by now, and I don’t walk into the kitchen, where I bake your pie for tomorrow, or prepare myself with thoughts of you. I just stand in the hallway. I’m frozen in place, from images of your smile. I drag my feet up the stairs, and I feel sadness pulling me down. As I enter  my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, I sit on the floor with my back against the door. I let out a sigh. You were always there for me, and you let me go. I feel tears fall down my cheeks. Every year won’t be the same anymore without you.
          

The next day, I didn’t smile, eat much, or look at anyone in the eyes like the rest of the family did. I was lost without you. I didn’t want to make any pies, because there was no point. You weren’t here to taste it. My dad had to make the pie, and I just stared at where it laid; on the center of the table. After an hour, they already started to cut the pie and serve it to everyone. I use to like the pie, and how it tasted on my tongue, but not anymore. I didn’t eat it. I can’t. Not with you gone.
           

Every year, before Thanksgiving, I don’t bake the pies, but instead cry. Cry because you're gone. Cry because you didn’t have anymore thanksgivings. Cry, because your heart attack made you fall asleep on the bathroom floor. Why? Why so soon? I wish for you to be here again, even though I know that can't ever happen. I wish to have just one more day with you, without you holding hands with your cigarette. Without your voice sounding a bit scraped when you talk because of the smoke in your lungs. Just you being you, with your loving heart, your soft eyes, and your smile that makes anyone smile. I wish, but it doesn’t come true. Sometimes I see you in my dreams. And sometimes, that's enough for me, because I know that not all wishes can come true.