Always, it is the pie I remember. The rest of Thanksgiving always blurs away, but the pies are meaningful, solid, graven in my mind.

For years, I made them with my grandfather. He was a ham-fisted giant with a tattooed forearm, who could handle crust with unparalleled gentleness. He learned how to make pies in the army, cranking out comfort food for the GI’s in Korea. I used to believe that when I grew up, we would open a pie shop together. The first Thanksgiving after he died, I screwed up the proportions of the crust and had to start over, twice.

I remember when they were perfect. I remember when the crust failed. I remember when I misread the recipe and ruined the filling; that year someone else brought the pie, a store-bought one. It was terrible.

Last year, I secretly took pictures of the pies with my cell phone and sent them to you — you, the one person for whom I was most thankful.

This year, everything is different, torn asunder.

I will make the pies again. I hope you will be there this year.