Vera’s doctor asked about sleep. Vera said better. Better was true. The driveway receipts had been the worst night. Nights since were uneven and improving. The doctor said grief. Vera said grief and a fact. The doctor did not ask the fact. Vera did not offer the toothbrush. Offices were not parlors. She took the prescription she did not fill. Not filling was a choice. She slept without it. Most nights. On the bad night she called Ruth. Ruth answered. Answering was the anti-call that never came. Vera said so. Ruth said I will keep answering. They hung up after the recipe. Recipes were lifelines disguised as food. Vera wrote the recipe down. Writing was filing. Filing worked.
The boy’s school had a grandparents day. Keisha asked Vera. Vera went. She sat in a small chair and heard a song. Raymond was not there to hum badly. She did not invite the absence to sing. She clapped for the boy. The clap was hers. A teacher said he talks about the car with wheels. Vera said the wheels are ambitious. The teacher laughed. Laughter in a classroom was clean. Vera drove home the ordinary way. No tax. She told Keisha the song was loud. Keisha said good. Loud was better than a whisper that exploded. They had done the explosion. They could do a song. The song ended. The day continued. Continuation was the whole aim.
Two years after the lilies, the guest book drawer stuck. Vera unstuck it and did not read. Reading was a relapse. She found a battery she needed and closed the drawer. The battery went into the remote. The remote changed a channel. The channel was news. She watched ten minutes and turned it off. Off was a skill. She had learned off with pearls and with phones and with a aisle. She made tea. The plant on the step was bigger. Stubborn, she had said. It kept being stubborn. She watered it. Sunday. Ruth called. They talked about nothing. Nothing was still the point. Keisha texted a photo of the boy with the trophy. Vera texted a period and then a word: proud. The word was salt. She used it sparingly. It was correct today. The parlor did not get a vote. The parlor had had its day. The day had been lilies and a locket and a question. How long. The answer had walked out. What remained was a grandmother in a kitchen, a daughter who had refused the wrong chair, a woman across town who had left when told, and years that were no longer being taken. Vera drank the tea. It was hot. Hot was a fact. She could live inside a fact. She did.