The snow crunches under Agnes’s boots on her approach. In her gloved fist, she carries a cluster of pale pink silk calla lilies, to replenish the ones buried. My father’s favorite flower, he admitted one quiet night in those last weeks, while he attempted to teach me how to play checkers. “Happy New Year!” Her greeting is delivered in that accent I now recognize as common to a born-and-bred Alaskan, especially from this side of the state. My father spoke in that same slow, relaxed, folksy way. “Nice day for a visit with Wren.”
