Nadine’s coworker asked about the funeral a second time and Nadine said it was a friend’s and then corrected herself, because friend’s was a theft. She said a man I loved, and his wife was there, and I left. The coworker said that’s a lot. Nadine said it was eleven years. She had not meant to give the number. The number came out anyway. The coworker did not ask for Labor Day. Nadine was grateful. Grateful was a new muscle. She used it by going back to her desk. The desk did not have a locket. The locket was boxed. Boxed was the instruction. She was good at instructions. She had been bad at the one that said don’t come. She had come. The correction was the leaving. She held the correction.
Vera found a Labor Day photo in a album, Raymond at a grill that was not theirs, a arm at the edge that was not hers. She did not burn the album. Burning was a speech. She took the photo out and put it in the drawer with the receipts. The album closed cleaner. Keisha, shown the gap, said good. Good was still traveling. It could travel inside a house. They watched the boy draw a car. The car had too many wheels. Vera said the wheels were ambitious. The boy said they go faster. Faster was a theory. They let him have it. Theories were better than maps of the east side. The map stayed paper. The car got hung on the fridge. The fridge was the new guest book. Names that belonged.
Patrice sent a final letter. Estate closed. Vera read it at the table and put it in the drawer and did not weep. Weeping had happened in the driveway with the receipts. The letter was administrative. Administrative was a mercy. She made greens. The salt was right this time. She called Ruth and said the salt was right. Ruth said that was the news she wanted. They stayed on the line while the greens cooled. Cooling was allowed. Not everything had to be eaten hot. Hot had been the parlor. Warm was a life. Vera ate warm. It was enough.