Walter moved into our guest room while we sorted things out.
Megan started cooking with him on Sundays.
One Sunday I was at the table pretending to read while really spying on both of them.
At first it was awkward. She would ask, “Do you remember this?” and he would say, “No, but my hands do.”
His memory didn’t come back in a torrent. It came back in plateaus.
How he folded a dish towel.
How he tested dough.
How he reached for salt without looking.
One Sunday I was at the table pretending to read while really spying on both of them. Megan sprinkled basil into the sauce.
Megan was leaning against the counter, laughing.
Walter looked over and said, “Too much, Maggie.”
The spoon stopped in her hand.
Then she laughed through tears.
“You used to say that every single time,” she said.
Walter smiled. Small. Real.
A few months later, I came home and found Walter at our kitchen table wearing the coat Megan had bought him. He was teaching me how to roll pasta dough properly because apparently I do it “like a man who has quarreled with flour.”
Walter never got all his memories back.
Megan was leaning against the counter, laughing.
