“You know,” I said, “you ought to throw away that jar of malted milk you have in there.” It was a moment before she answered. “I know,” she said. “In the closet there’s a scarf he left the last time he was here. I keep running across it. It still smells like him.” “Why don’t you get rid of it?” “I keep hoping I won’t have to. I hope one day I’ll open the closet door and it’ll be gone.”
