He showed me an old ticket stub from a concert they had attended; I told him the song she used to hum while folding laundry.

For the first time, the woman we were remembering belonged to both of us.

Neither memory was complete without the other.

Before I left, Warren asked if he might help preserve Evelyn’s papers, perhaps by having them placed in archival sleeves.

I said yes, with one condition: the originals would remain mine.

He smiled.

“Of course.”

It struck me then how different a generous offer felt when there was no hidden claim attached to it.