She insisted they tasted better than any store-bought variety.

I agreed partly because they did and partly because I liked how proud she looked.

At a roadside overlook, we sat beneath a tree and watched the sun brighten the hills.

The wind was strong enough to lift the edges of our napkins.

Miriam held hers down with the little compass necklace I’d worn since the cemetery visit, which I had taken off to untangle from my scarf.

“You look so much like your grandmother,” she said.