“You’ll want to come over.”

“I will want to come over very much.”

“You won’t, though,” she said. It was not a question. It was a check.

“No,” I said. “I won’t. You’ll say envelope and I’ll stop.”

She hugged me on my own porch in April and said, into my shoulder, “You know I’d have gone anywhere else if you hadn’t been at this address.”

“I know.”