The last of the lilies, in Vera’s mind, was not a flower. It was the smell on her dress when she got home that night and hung it up and did not wear it again. The dress stayed in the closet for a year and then went to the different church with the suits. A woman might need a black dress. Vera needed a kitchen. She kept the kitchen. Keisha, helping with the bag, said Auntie’s chair is just a chair. Vera said it is. They did not drive to the parlor to check. Checking was a hunger. They were not hungry for that room. They were hungry for lunch. They had lunch. The boy wanted the crusts off. Keisha cut them. Cutting crusts was a devotion. Devotion could be small and visible. Raymond’s had been large and hidden. They chose small. Small fed a child. That was the better Labor Day. It did not need a holiday name. It needed a knife and a plate.
Nadine saw the donated dress nowhere, because the city was large. She did not look. Looking was a meeting. She had her half of the leaving. Vera had the house. The division was the only fair cut available after eleven years. Fair did not mean painless. It meant the locket had left the row. Nadine could live with a cut. She had made it by sitting and then by walking. Walking was the part she would tell if she ever told it plain. She told Loretta. Loretta already knew. Knowing was enough audience. She did not need a guest book. Guest books were for people who stayed. She had not stayed. The not-staying was her signature. Unsigned. Correct.