She could invite a hundred people and convince each one she was there just for them.”

We sat with that memory.

Then Richard reached into his coat and handed me a faded photo of Arthur at the hardware store, holding a little boy on his shoulders.

“I found another one,” he said.

“You can add it to the wall if you want.”

I looked at the photograph and felt a familiar ache.

Arthur had been so many different people: husband, father, shopkeeper, neighbor, grieving widower, stubborn friend.

None of us owned his whole story.