birth date.
Her medication list.
Her preferred funeral home.
The name of the church she had stopped attending when the steps became too hard.
The phone number of the friend who still mailed her a Christmas card every year.
By morning, I had done what grief required.
I drove home through empty streets with Gertrude’s overnight bag in the passenger seat.
Her reading glasses were tucked into the side pocket.
A half-finished roll of peppermints sat at the bottom beside a folded tissue and a bottle of hand lotion.
At
