Christmas cards.
Tax records.
Recipes.
The ordinary remains of forty-three years of marriage.
I carried them to the dining room and began searching.
At eight, my phone rang.
Calvin.
“I told Ava you know.”
I stopped turning pages.
“How is she?”
“Relieved.”
That single word made me close my eyes.
A seven-year-old should never have felt responsible for correcting the silence of three adults.
“Can I talk to her?”
A moment later, Ava came on.
“Grandpa?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“At me?”
“Especially not at you.”
She was quiet.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You told me the best way you knew.”
“Did you see her?”
I looked toward the photograph.
“Yes.”
“She’s nice.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Yes, she is.”
“She remembers the bunny.”
“I heard.”
“Dad said we can all have lunch when she’s ready.”
“I’d like that.”
Ava lowered her voice.
