A Nurse Mentioned the Woman Visiting My Dying Husband—Then She Came to My Door With a Letter About a Five-Year-Old Boy

He pointed toward a shelf without leaving the track unfinished.

“What kind?”

“A big one.”

It was an adequate classification for the conversation he wanted to have.

Then he looked at me again.

“You do pancakes.”

I felt the room tilt in a different way.

“On Sundays?”