That anniversary Sunday, the kitchen was full before nine.

Clara sat at the bay window with her dominoes.

Mr.

Henderson’s photograph hung near the door; he had died peacefully the previous winter after years of volunteering, and we missed his stories about the school bus.

A group of high school students was preparing breakfast under Elise’s watchful eye while Nora arranged yellow roses in small jars.

I arrived carrying two travel mugs of coffee.

One was for Elise.