in plastic.
Buttercup yellow.
I was breathless.
It was obviously impossible to know the exact shade. Memory sometimes plays tricks on colors. The kitchen of my childhood may have been brighter or softer than I remembered.
But, standing there in the garage in Wendell, contemplating that warm and cheerful yellow, I suddenly heard my own voice, the one from a few weeks ago.
My mother thought kitchens should resemble the sun.
I said it while drying the dinner dishes.
Wendell was standing next to me, a dishcloth thrown over his shoulder.
“What kind of yellow?” he had asked.
“Buttercup.”
He had smiled.
“That’s quite accurate.”
“I haven’t forgotten it.”
Apparently, neither did he.
A hammer struck some wood somewhere inside the house.
I jumped.
Country music came to an abrupt halt.
“Winnie?”
Wendell appeared
