I drove home and sat in my driveway for ten minutes, just staring at the blue envelope in my lap. The sun was warm through the windshield, and the steering wheel of my old Chevy felt solid under my hands.

I still miss her. I think I will always miss her on Saturday mornings when the house is quiet and the light is just starting to turn gray.

But that evening, I didn’t put the recipe box back on the top shelf. I left it right on the counter, next to the flour canister where it belonged.

Then I went down to the basement, pulled out my old wooden easel from behind the winter tires, and carried it upstairs into the spare bedroom where the light was best.