I ran a finger along the rim of a blue glass serving dish.

I remembered my grandmother’s kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and furniture polish, the way she always gave children the first strawberries from her garden.

She had also given me the old suitcase.

I was twelve when she presented it after my first school debate trip.

Its handle was cracked even then, but she’d lined the inside with blue cotton and told me that a person should always have something she could carry herself.

I had forgotten that story until Lena mentioned the bowl.