It had actually been a short trip to Nan’s place. Sure it was in another town, but the time had flown by because my mind had been preoccupied with memories of Arty…

—The way he always made sure there were lots of goodies and chocolate eggs for us to find at the Easter egg hunt
—Those spectacular hot cross buns he loved to bake this time of year
—The fascinating travel stories he told of days gone by (always said with a glint in his eye that made me wonder if he was making up half of it)
—And the way he made us all laugh with his silly little jokes.

Earlier in the day Nan told me how much she was looking forward to my visit. This would be her first Easter since Arty had passed away and she was anxious to share stories and reconnect. His death had hit her like a freight train—one minute they were celebrating their 60^th anniversary and the next minute she was burying him.

While she served real green tea (the kind she learned to make years ago in Japan) and tasty little sandwiches (a tradition from Britain), we chatted about the fun times we remembered having with Arty.

The center of the table held the bouquet of spring flowers I had picked from my garden. And the hot-cross buns (made using Arty’s recipe) sat expectantly on the cooling rack.

When our laughter turned to tears, Nan cried on my shoulder and dabbed at her eyes with the lacy hanky she had given Arty when they got betrothed. She told me how grateful she was for our visit because it made her realize Arty would never be forgotten—not by her, or by the people who loved him.

He would be with her always—in her memories and in her heart—in just about everything she did.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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