“Sometimes. At back of store, someone makes bread. Almost like a real baker, but not.”

“There’s a bulletin board for notices. Near the exit.”

“Notice of what? I have never paid attention to this board.”

“Not everyone uses his phone to plan activities,” said Tom.

“I have a phone. I use it for phone calls only. What is on this board?”

“All sorts of things. Take a look next time you’re there. Events going on in the community. Advertisements. Offers to help, a variety of items. Occasionally I check to see if an auction or estate sale is coming up.”

“I will look next time I go to the shopping.”

“The five—we all shop at Marvin’s—well, we all saw the same notice on this board and came together to talk about grief. We met at a café called Cassandra’s. The meeting was not sad. We weren’t there to be morose.”

“‘Morose’ is a good word, Toe-mas. Much of the world is morose. What do five people together say about not being morose?”

“I suppose each of us told a bit of our own story. A small piece of the life pie. None of us knew each other beforehand. There were good feelings in this group.”

“Did someone read aloud? A fable? An invention of the mind? A story, a poem?”

“No. Though I suppose some stories might have been inventions of the mind.” Tom again thought of, but did not mention, the poems in the drawer beneath his hand. “We spoke about people we’ve lost in the past. Recent past. We spoke of different things, not only loss.” He smiled while considering fables, inventions, what was real, what was not.

Allam was silent, also looking inward. He glanced toward the door, always checking.

“People are bringing their pain to this group? They speak aloud their pain?”

“Not exactly. Everyone was friendly, informal. And kind. We’ll be meeting every Tuesday, seven o’clock. If you’d like to come, I’ll bring you along. The meeting is open to everyone.”

“I cannot next week. But for weeks after that, I will think abou-t,” said Allam. And left the t sinking through the air as he departed.

Memory Vault

CHIYO

Chiyo, too, was thinking. She had decided that she would return. She might be the youngest in the group, but Addie was around the same age. And she liked the idea of there being no hard-and-fast agenda. Everyone seemed reasonable about expressing what came to mind, nothing rehearsed. In some instances, details erupted sharply. In others, a shade was drawn, whatever veil there was to hide behind. Topics changed quickly. And yet, grief underlay everything.

We have the ability, she told herself. The ability to experience sadness. Maybe not exclusive to our species, but it does help to make us human. And there’s something hopeful about people getting together to share. Who can possibly know how profound the experience of grief can be except those who have grieved? I suppose that includes almost everyone. From the smallest child who loses a pet, or whose best friend moves away.