Grandma's Sweet Potato Pie

I can barely remember you because you died along with her, and it's only her daughter who makes you now. Something's missing, but I can't quite put my finger on it; you have the same creamy texture, smooth like the rarest satin suited only for the highest of royals. You still have that unique shade of brown and I can see the specks of spice; it reminds me of her freckles and stars in the night sky. Your crust was always crimped and flaky, so different from her. She could not be compressed, forced in a mold, and she made sure she was always there until she couldn't anymore. It all blends into this perfect sweet bite of nostalgia, comfort, and home except, except something is still missing, and I still can't see it. Maybe the thing missing is her: "It was made with love." It's quite bittersweet to think of you. I miss you, I do, but sweet potato pie, I miss her more.