I bring in the day’s mail. Most bills and correspondence are joint. I open what’s addressed to Andy. There have been no soap-opera bombshells—a secret child, Swiss account—just mostly invitations to resubscribe to something.
My sympathy cards I divide into two stacks: those who didn’t visit the funeral home and want to explain why, and those mourners who did but are following up, double-dipping like it was a job interview and they want to reiterate their resume’s strengths.
Some sweetly acknowledge Noel and Gertie by signing their cards with their pets’ names.
Mom is tidying the kitchen in her pink clam-diggers, choice leisurewear from a Blair catalog that she calls “my clams.” She looks ready to stomp grapes. She studies our coffeemaker as though it has athlete’s foot. “I should run vi
