"You remembered that too," I said, and my voice didn't come out quite steady.

"I remember most things," he said again, quieter this time, and went back to the pansies like it wasn't a big deal, which was exactly the kind of thing that made it a very big deal. “Is there anything special you want to do?”

I looked down at the dirt under my nails, at the purple flowers going into the pot her hands used to fill every spring, at the porch she'd sat on for forty years telling stories that were true enough, and I let myself cry a little, easy and unhurried, the way the rain had come down the night everything else got resolved.

"She liked you, you know," I said finally. "I think we should invite everyone who loved her and go listen to some jazz."

Hollis didn't say anything clever back. He just reached over, thumb smudged with potting soil, and wiped a tear off my cheek. “That sounds great.”

Across the street, Mrs. Patterson's screen door banged shut. Teddy pressed his nose against the front window, offended to be left inside while we were doing something as exciting as gardening. Somewhere down Frenchmen Street a trumpet was warming up early, the way this city always did, grief and music running along the same wire.

I pressed a pansy into the soil next to Hollis's, and let it be enough.