At 82, I Found

“I miss her,” he whispered.

Ruth nodded. “Then do something with it.”

He did.

In February, Frank tried to bake Margaret’s apple pie.

It was a disaster.

He peeled the apples too thick. The crust tore. He forgot to chill the butter. Flour covered the counter, his sweater, and somehow the floor near the refrigerator.

Diane arrived halfway through and stopped continue reading …