It made me think about how I wish I was already at that place where I can remember some of the good stuff without triggering all the grief. And then I made broccoli tonight and Mila gave it a shot.

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.