I love my Brinn

It's hard knowing you'll be away from your granddaughter for a while. Brinn is the crystal dewdrops, the silken petals, the diving moonlight to my earth. She's the cinnamon to my apple, the sugar to my spice, the salt to my pepper. 

I love my Brinn.

She'll always be my sweet little darling and my granddaughter and partner in crime. I remember unclipping my fountain pen from my pocket and finishing off those words with a flourish in my cookbook.

"What's a partner in crime, Grandpa?"

I chuckle. "It means someone who commits crimes along with you."

"We're not bad! We don't co-commit any crimes!"

"But we do-making these pies is a crime against me because I can't eat them."

"Why not?"

"Diabetes." I smile, stretching my fingers out to show her the barely healing punctures. The same fingers I've dipped in pie filling so many times to check the consistency. The same fingers baby Brinn chewed on. The same fingers that fed her and brushed her hair and pinched her cheeks.

The cookbook is Brinn's now. 

Apple, blueberry, peach, pumpkin, banana cream, banoffee, blackberry, cheese, cherry, chess, coconut cream, key lime, lemon meringue, meat, mince, pecan, raisin, raspberry, rhubarb, strawberry, and sweet potato pies and their recipes line the pages, hand-in-hand, in my cramped writing. 

My favorite has always been pumpkin. I ignore this when three-year-old Brinn tugs on my finger to tell me she prefers apple and blueberry pie instead and spend every pie-baking or -eating time with her watching her consume apple and blueberry. 

Eight-year-old Brinn asked me once, "What's your favorite flavor, Grandpa?" 

I replied with apple and blueberry; any of Brinn's favorites were mine as well, regardless of my tastes.

Her eyes and dimples crinkled upon hearing so, a smile occupying her small face--a few teeth missing here and there, taken by the Tooth Fairy---and spirit.

I love my Brinn.

Her toothless-then missing a few-then adorned with braces-now diamond smile is the real treat, regardless of which delicacy we decide to bake that day. I wouldn't mind missing a pie, but I know I'd miss that smile-I still do. Video calling doesn't do her smiles justice, pixelating the whiteness and glints I've looked forward to so much every day of her twenty-six years of living.

I love my Brinn.

Her hands, slowly growing over the years, hadn't gone a day without occupying me in the kitchen. Hers, smooth, tanned, and plump, whisking the ingredients together, kneading the dough, slipping into oven mitts, and mine, liver-spotted, wrinkled, and bony, always guiding hers. 

I miss the warmth of her hands. The only time I see them now are during video call when she reaches towards her phone to take a picture or end the call. 

Even if I could see her, we wouldn't be able to hold hands-she works in healthcare, and I'm eighty-seven. The risks are too high; she repeats to me worriedly when I ask to see her.

I don't mind the risks if I get to see my granddaughter. If I do die, the last person I want to see is Brinn.

I love my Brinn.

I love her so much that I decided to cook an apple and blueberry pie dedicated to her. 

She might not be with me now, but she's always had a firm grip on me-my heart, my beard when she was a baby, my clothes as a toddler, my hands as a child, and my kitchen tools as a woman.

I think of her powerful hold on my heart now as I preheat the oven and pull the ingredients from my shelves.

The recipe has always been crisp in my memory book-it's Brinn's favorite, after all. 

Apples.

Blueberries.

Flour.

Butter.

Salt.

Water.

Shortening.

Sugar.

Sugar? What will I do with the pie? My blood sugar levels don't need this much glucose.

I don't know, but I push the thought into a cell now, planning on unlocking it for trial later.

Cutting the butter into small cubes, like the rainbow ones she'd twist and turn. What did she call them? Rubix? Yes, Rubix cubes.

I smile at the memory, remembering how she brought me one for my kitchen counter. 

"Every kitchen counter needs a little something-like you always said," she laughed. 

I cried that night. Brinn always remembered the little things I said.

I need ice water. I remember the Ice Age, our word for the winter. We had watched a documentary about how early humans lived during the Ice Age and how they used every component of their resources when preparing food. Giggling, Brinn nudged me, mentioning I used all parts of my ingredients when baking as well-the fruit flesh for the pies and the peels and stems for compost for my orchards.

So it became our little joke.

I push my fingers through the pie crust dough, a smile appearing on my face. It feels like flying through clouds-doughy, perfect ones. I'll be pouring some apple and blueberry filling sunshine onto these clouds soon enough.

Soon, I place pie weights on top of the crust, thinking of Brinn's marble phase in elementary school and how they'd roll everywhere. 

The oven beeps, and I pull the crust out, marveling at its golden flakiness. The apples and blueberries have simmered into a sugary delight, perfuming my kitchen. 

I assemble the pie and unlock my thoughts for trial. What do I do with the pie? 

A grandpa can have a treat, and besides, I miss Brinn. I haven't had pie in almost twenty years; I lament as I dish myself a mouthwateringly large piece of apple and blueberry.

The filling pours out the sides, just how Brinn liked her slice and how I like mine too, because her favorites are always mine.

I miss my crystal dewdrops, my silken petals, my diving moonlight, my cinnamon, and my sugar and salt.

I know this is dangerous. What danger is it when it’s for my granddaughter, though? What are risks when it's for an angel, a diamond, an inspiration, a friend, a loved one, a family member?

I slide a fork into the pie and eat.

I love my Brinn.