He brought up his camper payment.

His bad back.

The long drive home.

He reminded me, more than once, that he couldn’t stay.

Our stepfather, Delroy, had been out of Mama’s life for six years by then, so there was no one else to help us work through nearly eight decades of a woman’s belongings.

Lonnie claimed the living room.

I took the pantry — nobody was fighting me for the canned goods.

There is a particular loneliness to emptying your mother’s house the day after you bury her.