“It’s the best pot roast I’ve ever had, Frannie,” he said.
She smiled. The biggest smile I’d seen on her face in two years.
“I know it’s not my best,” she said. “I can’t remember the recipe anymore. I keep forgetting things.”
“That’s okay,” Mark said.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If I forgot something important?”
Ezoic
Mark put down his fork.
Ezoic
He looked at his mother across the kitchen table. At her falling-out bobby pins and her flowered apron and her hands, spotted and shaking.
“You’ll never forget anything important, Frannie,” he said. “The important stuff’s right here.”
He reached across the table and put his hand on her chest. Over her heart.
The way Jean did.
Frances looked down at his hand. Then back up at his face.
For a moment, just a moment, something moved behind her eyes. Something that wasn’t confusion.
