“Can we keep the little green chairs?”

“We can keep anything you want, Emma,” I said.

I went into the kitchen, picked up the damp dish towel my mother had left on the counter, and tossed it into the trash can under the sink.

The clock over the stove said six fifty-five.

Outside, the summer sun was starting to sink behind the tree line along the back fence.

I sat down at the table where my mother’s mug of tea was still sitting on the wood.