Ten open jars are spread out on her table, including two for peanut butter and one for pickles. A newspaper lies folded in half in front of her chair, next to a crusty fork and a lid that doesn't fit any of the jars.
The waiter is one of the most charismatic people we've ever met. When he glides up to our table, we kind of forget about the food. Radiant with warmth and good humor, he grins, tells jokes, offers vivid descriptions of dessert. We would pay him to eat with us.
The boy hits replay again on Abbott & Costello's "Who's on First" routine.
We're lost in a white hallway with a white-and-black checkered floor. "I'm here," says his disembodied voice, its path distorted by sharp turns and the high ceiling over the corkscrew stairs.
She refuses only because she likes to hear us plead with her.
The dog slips between me and the chess board, her tail sweeping pieces off as she stares at me with a solemn expression.
The house belongs now to someone else. The tree she planted may be ripped out or cut down. Few people remember the work she put into that yard.