Apple Pie

My mom wasn’t always so bad. I have one memory just before my spark. We were baking. Mom would measure out the ingredients. I poured them carefully into the bowl and stirred everything together. 

Mom would roll out the dough and cut it into place while I bounced on the other side of the island waiting for my piece of the crush to dash with cinnamon and sugar. 

The house smelled like fall and it is the only good memory I had of my mother. But now apple pie turns to ash in mouth but the smell. Mmmm. That’s different.