In her last year, she wrote her own reminders in increasingly shaky letters: WATER PLANTS.

CALL PAIGE.

ASK DOCTOR.

After she died, I’d found the calendar tucked behind a jar of cinnamon and cried because the page for the next month was blank.

One evening I took it from the box under Elena’s bed and placed it on the table.

I wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps I wanted a reminder that there had been a person inside all those medical bills: a woman who liked cardamom buns, who danced while washing dishes, who told me to ask questions when powerful people wanted me quiet.

I wrote my upcoming shifts on the calendar.