“I understand.”

I wanted his cap, his shoes, the cane he sometimes used when a long day made walking uncomfortable.

I wanted the travel bag I had watched him carry out of our house.

I wanted the objects that could prove he had been somewhere ordinary before the telephone rang.

A formal document could establish that he had died.

It could not tell me which book he had opened last, what he had said over breakfast, or whether he had reached for his glasses in the familiar way.

I asked Samantha those questions, and she answered some.