on Sunday mornings with the ceramic bowl and the wooden spoon, the kitchen with the cast iron in order of size on the hooks Frances had installed, was covered in the remains of food prepared and eaten with none of the care the room deserved.
The spice jars.
Someone had rearranged the spice jars.
I stood looking at that for a long time. It was not the worst damage. It was not the rarest object or the most expensive thing. But Frances’s handwriting was on those jars, and they had
