At ten o’clock I sorted her medicine on the coffee table, because I couldn’t sit still and there was no one to tell me not to.

Six orange bottles, three white ones and a sandwich bag of loose pills she’d never bothered to label.

I lined them up by size, the way she’d taught me to line up the offering envelopes on Sunday mornings.

Then I pulled her black leather purse onto my lap.

She’d carried it since before I was born, and everything inside had its spot: lipstick, a compact, a roll of Life Savers, a pen from the Bank of Deer Park and her checkbook held closed with a rubber band.

Tucked in the zipper pocket was a white envelope, folded once and worn soft at the corners.