Attempt No. 12

Journal

Grandma Ro made Sunday gravy every week for 51 years. She never wrote the whole thing down. Three months after the funeral, Grandpa announced he'd figure it out himself.

Her card. Half of it is in Italian, one line is a coffee stain, and the last step just says: 'then you know what.'

Attempt 3. The smoke alarm knows him by name now.

Attempt 6, too sweet. Attempt 7, too salty. Attempt 8, even Bruno wouldn't touch it.

Attempt 9. He sat down after dinner and didn't get up for a long time.

A week later I went down to the chest freezer looking for ice cream. Under the frozen peas there was a bag with her handwriting on it.

'Rinds for Sal's gravy. Don't you dare throw these out.' That was the 'you know what.' She'd been saving them for him for years.

Christmas Eve. Attempt 12. He didn't tell my mom anything. He just put a bowl in front of her.

I had her card framed for his kitchen. He doesn't need to read it anymore. He just hums while it simmers, low and slow, like she did.