He says nothing for a minute, just gazes into the shed. Finally, seeming wistful, he sighs. “She loved gardening.”

I’m not sure if I’ve lost him on the Alzheimer’s vein, but I do like this one. “Yes.”

“I come here sometimes,” he says. “It’s quiet.”

It was. The memory of that motivates me, and, slipping past him, I enter. I always marveled that wood and glass could mute the shore sounds this well without insulation. But it was like this place was of earth, and within these walls, earth overrode water, birds, even the guttural rumble of double outboards too close to shore.

Quiet. Yes. Here is the table on which my mother worked, the shelves of stacked pots and watering cans, the trowels and clippers and other hand tools on hooks. The wheelbarrow still holds remnants of dirt from her very last planting here, but on top of that are neatly folded knee pads and a hat. A stained aluminum ladder slants against the wall along with a lineup of shovels, rakes, and hoes. Cobwebs are everywhere, but they only add to the ethereality. There is something sacred about this place, as rightly there should be. My mother is here.

Tearing up, I hold my arms close to my sides.

“I come here sometimes,” my father repeats from the door.

I swallow. “I understand why,” I say, then realize that no, I do not understand why. He cheated on my mother for years, if not in body then in mind. He kept her tied to this life as his subordinate. He was the cause of her worst humiliation. For all these reasons, I need to understand more.

I turn to him to ask, but his blue eyes are moist. Tears? From Judge Thomas Aldiss, my very formal, detached, world-unto-himself father? I’m horrified. I don’t know how to deal with vulnerability in this man.

“I don’t want to forget her,” he says.

“Who?”

“Your mom.” He pauses. “My mom. You girls. Elizabeth.”

I could have done without the last, but even so, I hear an invitation. A dozen questions pop into my mind, and though I’m desperate to ask, I fear that peppering him will only drive him to silence again.

In that instant, though, I have a thought. It’s a brilliant one, actually. Returning to the door, I dare grasp his arms. “You don’t have to forget, Dad. I could write it all down.”

He pulls in his chin. “Write what down?”