The night my mother had died I slept on the lawn in a sleeping bag under the stars. I woke the next day and felt the same emptiness.

The woman in her late 50s or early 60s who excused herself and wore a colorful, handcrafted felt hat was speaking to a woman in her 80s who had a bubbliness of someone half her age, wore what I can only describe as a bonnet, looked familiar to me and spoke audibly and loud enough for me to hear that Yvette Eastman had died at the age of 101.

I was 15 minutes late to the Allen Farm this morning. It was cold and getting out of bed felt like torture.