Sometimes, my grandmother would slice a banana into rounds in a bowl and pour half-and-half over them, telling us this was a treat my father enjoyed as a boy. I loved to imagine him sitting at the same table, and I loved my grandmother’s cutlery — the delicate flowers and ribbons and bows, how light they were in my hands.

I don’t feel like I was only one who felt the extra energy, whether it was from someone loved and lost, or maybe just memories of who we were and who we’d wanted to be, lingering thoughts of a different time, or hope for a time when things are better— there is joy and grief in remembering, in believing.