I undid the brass clasp and took out her old address book.

The black vinyl cover was worn smooth at the corners, and the gold letters on the front were nearly rubbed off.

I sat down in her wooden chair and opened to the letter A.

Her blue ballpoint handwriting filled every line, listing plumbers and grocers and ladies from the missionary society.

I turned the pages slowly through the alphabet until I came to the P section.

When I turned the page to look for R, my fingers slipped right into an empty gap.