Well, it’s a beautiful day, and it is breakfast time. As we pass the living room I peer in, and take a moment to admire my new rug. It’s the color of everything—yellow, green, ochre, magenta, pink. I love it. I could have thrown away that old blue rug any time since Mommy left, I guess. Strange that it never occurred to me until after everything happened.

We go into the kitchen. So far we have only discovered one thing that all of us like to eat. We have it together in the morning, sometimes. I always describe what I’m doing as I do it, so that we all remember. I don’t need to record my recipes anymore.

“We’re going to make it like this,” I say. “Take fresh strawberries from the refrigerator. Wash them in cold running water. Put them in a bowl.” We watch them gleam in the morning sun. “We can dry them with a cloth,” I say, “or we can wait for the sun to do its work. It is our choice.”

I used to saw the strawberries into quarters with a blunt knife, because there was nothing sharp in the house. But now I keep a set of chef’s knives in a block on the counter. “This is called trust,” I say as I slice. “Some of us have a lot to learn about it. See my point?” I guess that is what Lauren calls a dad joke.

The blade reflects the red flesh of the fruit as it slides through. The scent is sweet and earthy. I feel some of them stir with pleasure within. “Can you smell that?” I have to be careful with the knife near my fingers. I don’t give my pain to the others anymore. “So we slice the strawberries as thin as we can and pour over balsamic vinegar. It should be the kind that is old and thick like syrup. Now we take three leaves from the basil plant that grows in the pot on the window ledge. We slice these into narrow ribbons and breathe the scent. Now add the basil to the strawberries and balsamic vinegar.” It is a recipe, but sometimes it sounds like a spell.

We let it sit for a few minutes, so the flavors can mingle. We use this time to think, or watch the sky, or just be ourselves.

When I feel it’s ready I say, “I’m putting the strawberry, basil and balsamic mixture on a slice of bread.” The bread smells brown and nutty. “I grind black pepper over. It’s time to go outside.”

The sky and trees are flooded with birds. The song flows and ebbs around us, on the air. Lauren gives a little sigh as the sun warms our skin.

“Now,” I say. “We eat.”

AFTERWORD