He felt the sad young woman watching him through eyes bruised by grief. He looked down at the printed program card in his hand. It was beautiful, the thick stock imprinted by the letterpress machine in the basement of the bookshop. After he’d closed down his typewriter repair business and founded the bookstore with Blythe, no one had wanted to move the heavy machine, so they kept it and occasionally used it for special printings—a birth announcement when Natalie was born, the grand opening of the bookstore three decades ago, a gallery showing for Charlie Wong. Andrew used to tell Blythe he was getting old while waiting to print an announcement that she was finally getting married.

That always made her laugh and say he’d raised the bar too high; she would never find a man who could measure up to him. After what had happened with the fellow who had fathered Natalie, Andrew was glad she could laugh at all.

Then, in a blink, the situation came clear to him. The young woman beside him was Natalie, his granddaughter, Natalie. Her regard felt like a whir of moth wings against his cheek, powdering his skin with a residue like May Lin’s dusting powder, back when she had lived with him and they were happy.

He summoned a smile for Blythe. No, not Blythe. Natalie. Blythe was gone, suddenly and irretrievably, like a zephyr shooting into the night sky, leaving a trail of moonlit particles that swirled in brief, unspeakable beauty, and then faded into nothing.

The very sweet pop song was one he’d heard on Blythe’s radio many times, so he knew when the melody was winding down. He took out his handkerchief again and checked on Natalie, the silent sadness beside him.

His granddaughter’s face was a portrait of everything they were both feeling. Her eyes mirrored his pain. The shock and grief of losing Blythe were so deep and intense that it felt as if a new and devastating emotion had been invented just for them.

Natalie noticed his attention and tucked her hand inside his. Leaning over, she whispered, “Are you doing all right?”

No, he thought. A man is not meant to outlive his daughter.

“Yes,” he whispered back, the lie hissing through his teeth.

“If you don’t want to speak … if it’s too much for you—”

He squeezed her hand. “I know what I want to say. I’ll get through it.”

“You’re incredible, Grandy. I’m so glad I have you.”

“And I you.” He sat still as the officiant did another reading. He tried to think about what he wanted to say. What he needed to say.

How did one honor a woman’s life in a five-minute speech?