Inside were Goldi’s photographs, university notebooks, a green scarf she wore every winter, and a silver bracelet I had given her on our first anniversary.
Leo sat beside me on the floor.
I showed him a picture of Goldi laughing at the beach.
“She hated sand,” I said. “She complained all day, then refused to leave because the sunset was beautiful.”
He smiled.
I showed him our wedding photograph.
“Was she funny?”
“Very.”
“Did she sing?”
“Terribly.”
“Do I look like her?”
For years, I had avoided looking for Goldi in him.
Now I saw her everywhere.
The curve of his smile.
The dimple in his left cheek.
The way one eyebrow rose when he was confused.
“Yes,” I said. “You do.”
At the bottom of the box was an old address book I had stored away.
