During dinner, Mrs.

Alvarez told us about Evelyn’s yellow roses and the way Arthur always cut the stems too short when he brought them inside.

“She’d pretend to be annoyed,” Mrs.

Alvarez said.

“But she saved every one in little glass jars.”

I looked around our crowded kitchen.

What Arthur had missed after Evelyn’s death wasn’t merely company.

It was the rhythm of people coming and going, the expectation that tomorrow might bring another shared meal.