My mother’s rental car sat in the driveway with its trunk open.

Martha Hayward came down the porch steps with an armful of sweaters and didn’t bother folding them before she dropped them in a box.

“Your father’s shirts are in the cedar chest,” she said.

“Mine are in the hall closet.

We won’t be long.”

Arthur was inside holding Grandma’s old tape gun, staring at the bookshelf as though it had asked him a question.

“Take your time,” I said, and sat on the arm of Grandma’s chair and kept out of the way.