scraps.

Sitting on the floor with cookbooks piled up around her, she sifts through them with an interest that is laced with an air of desperation. Her target is not what one might think. She is not searching for a long lost family recipe. What her heart genuinely desires is a scrap of paper.
Not just any scrap of paper. What she seeks could be a receipt from a shopping trip that marks a page. Perhaps a paper filled with numbers written in an attempt to adjust a recipe. A most magnificent find would be a handwritten original. She would be grateful for anything that would give her a perception of bond that is no longer physically possible

At last she finds what she yearns for. Turning the pages gently she discovers a scrap of paper with handwriting so distinct that it leaves no question concerning the author. She hugs the scrap to her heart, careful not to allow the tears that have created rivers down her cheeks to ruin the treasure she ever so gently cradles. With her eyes closed to the world around her she smiles through her tears, remembering.