My hands shake as I carry in the tray. These last few steps are the hardest, and the porcelain rattles a bit. Our old blue pot and the golden rimmed cups from our wedding. Ginny is so brave.

I remind myself, there is no other way. “Jack, how wonderful!” She beams up to me happily, but I know she cries herself to sleep. It’s our 62nd anniversary. “It’ll go fast,” I tell her, “it’s foxglove.”

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