the back door.
His unopened mail sat in a neat stack on the kitchen counter.
A dry-cleaning ticket hung from the refrigerator under a magnet.
The ordinary shape of our life made the loss feel almost impossible.
I finally opened my hand.
A tiny silver key lay in my palm.
There was no tag attached to it.
No number.
No note.
The edges were worn smooth in some places, as though Gertrude had handled it often.
I searched her overnight bag, her coat pockets, and the small zippered pouch where
