I let ancestors whisper
to me through faded pen
marks on yellowed pages
sifted flour––cut in butter with fork
folded crisp green apples
into homemade caramel
trapped them beneath lattice
and baked until golden
filled the house with warm
cinnamon that smelled like home
for multiple generations
let my grandmother cut
the first slice––smooth rise
of steam as hot pie took fresh breath
let her enjoy the first bite
flavor blooming on tongue
before she let me know
she would have preferred peach.