Clara and I don’t talk often. We are not friends—our connection is too painful for that. But we text on holidays. Last week, she sent me a photo of Maya’s first day of second grade. The little girl was smiling, her backpack covered in glitter.

Yesterday, I was cleaning out the hall closet and found an old pair of Mark’s work boots. I took them out to the trash bin in the driveway.

On my way back in, I noticed the tomatoes I had planted in the backyard were finally turning red. I picked three of them. They were warm from the afternoon sun.

I went inside, sliced them up, and ate them at the kitchen table with a little salt and pepper. I didn’t rush. I had all the time in the world.