That was the first thing I remember clearly after my father’s funeral. Not the flowers stacked on every surface of the dining room, not the casseroles lined up on the kitchen counter in foil covered pans brought by neighbors who believed grief could be cured with ground beef and cream of mushroom soup, not the rain tapping against the windows like nervous fingers, not the way my father’s house already smelled different without him in it, as though the building itself understood that the man who had maintained it for forty years was gone and had begun the slow process of forgetting his preferences. Not any of that. Megan’s smile.
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