Only four years later Ed’s wake had been there, in the front room, and neighbors crossed that porch to pay their respects. He had died in the home and wanted his viewing there as well. When it was over, she and Ellen had sat and cried together on the porch until they had nothing left inside to cry out. The neighbors had cried too. And they brought hot bread and pies and potato casseroles with cornflake topping.

There had been other tears shed on that porch. She had stood on the porch and cried the day Ellen left for college, driven to Salt Lake City by her cousin who knew his way around the big city. Then she cried again when Ellen and her baby grandson, Alessio, left for Italy to live. Then too her good neighbors came to her aid, bringing fresh-baked bread and casseroles. That’s how things were done in Vernal.

The home had aluminum window canopies, once bright green but sun-faded to an olive hue. It had wrought-iron railings set in the concrete of the porch, painted white, chipped in places and rusted at the bottom. An oxidized chain-link fence surrounded the yard, with grass intertwined and tall at its base where the lawn mower didn’t reach and the weed eater had failed to bring it down. An apple tree grew in front, its boughs heavy with sour green apples, and some newly fallen fruit peeking up from the grass like bird eggs in a nest.

Yes, there had been a lot of living in that home. Someday she too would be gone. The house would be sold, to a young couple. They would come. They would tear out the harvest gold shag carpets and refinish the hardwood floors protected beneath. Walls would be painted again, this time with paints that had food names: oatmeal, vanilla or cranberry. New appliances would be bought, cappuccino makers and refrigerators with water and ice in the door. The cycle would start anew with somebody else.

But not yet. Doris’s daughter was back. Her grandson was back. And she had a blanket to finish.

Doris set down her needles and waved as Eliana’s car sidled up to the curb and stopped. As Eliana took the keys from the ignition, Alessio slumped down in his seat, his frown returning. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“Because I said so. And stop whining. In eight blocks you’ve filled this car with more whine than Chianti produces in a year.”

“That’s dumb, Mom.”

“So is your whining.”

“Why do I have to stay?”

“Because I said so, Mr. Ferrini. You have school tomorrow. And mommies sometimes need time for themselves. Besides, you hate art shows. Remember last time all you wanted to do was go home? And Nonna—” She corrected herself. “Grandma would be very sad if you didn’t stay with her. She’s missed you.”