The kitchen clock kept time better than I did in those days. Six months had passed since Harry died on a stretch of wet highway outside the city, and most mornings, I still reached for his coffee mug before remembering.
Sunday was the only day that made sense. Because on Sundays, I had somewhere to be.
I drove the same route to the cemetery every week, with the same grocery-store carnations on the passenger seat.
The ritual was small, but it was mine.
Marlene called almost every day. She left casseroles on my porch and folded laundry I had not asked her to fold.
“You have to start living again, sweetheart,” she told me one Tuesday, smoothing a tea towel I had already smoothed twice.