Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie. It would be steaming hot, and sweet, with a hint of sour; she’d have it with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, lovingly saving the scalloped edges of the crust until last. The crust that she had pressed into with her childhood fingers, that her grandmother’s wrinkled hands had smoothed. The crust that was buttery and perfect and crisp.
     Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie. Thirty-two years she had wanted it. Thirty-two years since her grandmother went into hospice. Thirty-two years since her grandmother didn’t come out.
     Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie. Her mother refused to make it, saying she’d burn the crust, and huckleberries weren’t on her side of the country anyway. The pie would be an insult to her grandmother’s. Emilia’s mother couldn’t — she wouldn’t — make pie.
     Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie. She and her grandmother, they would cut the dough in fine lines, criss-crossing it over the berries in patterns that were even and binding as stitches on a hand-sewn quilt. Then her grandmother would smooth Emilia’s hair with flour-covered hands, telling her how grown and tall she was getting, and how someday, someday soon, Emilia would bake on her own. And Emilia would smile, thrilled, as if this promise held the secrets of the universe.
     Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie. She got out her sugar. Butter. Flour. She hand-picked the berries. Those were the best kind, her grandmother used to say. The kind that stained your two hands violet before you bake them.
     The pie came out burnt.
     Emilia longed for her grandmother’s huckleberry pie.