that was how she treated whatever she loved: with precision, and with intent.
When I stayed with her, she made pancakes on Sunday mornings.
She made them the same way each time, in the same ceramic bowl, with the same wooden spoon worn darker on one side from years of stirring. She put them on the same blue plates, two of which were chipped at the rim, plates she kept because they had always been hers and the chips belonged to their story.
The lake house was the place where
