“Elbow noodles, cheese, milk, eggs, salt and pepper to taste.” I mutter the ingredients under my breath over and over like an incantation I wish could summon Byrd here. Or at least call on her wisdom, because I’ve messed things up so badly, I don’t know what to do. If the ingredients are the prayer, the steam rising from the boiling pot of noodles is the incense and this kitchen a temple where I would sacrifice just about anything to have her here with me right now. “I miss you so much, Byrd,” I say, licking the tears from my lips. “Still.”
