“It tastes like a fence post.”

“Your grandfather drank it for forty years and never once complained.”

She laughed, one short breath through her nose, and then she put her hand flat on the tax notice and went quiet again.

I poured two cups and sat down across from her.

She nodded toward the window.

“Do you still have that trunk in the tool shed?

The one with the leather straps and the brass corners?”

“Your grandfather’s.”