Her keening sob settled into a watery, bleary dullness. She couldn’t feel anything. She wasn’t sure if it was spiritual death or a kind of peace. Her eyes were drawn back to the bedroom. That warm, yellow bedroom. Harry’s unabashed favorite color.

“Really? You want to paint the bedroom,” Rita peered at the tiny print below the color, “Duckling?”

Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his chin to her shoulder. “That way, when it’s all cold and dark and nasty outside we can be snug and warm in the sunshine. It can be spring any day of the year in our bedroom.”

That had been her Harry. His brother had nicknamed him Sunny Side Up. Never unrealistic, never saintly by any means, but always with an aptitude for finding the bright side. Or making one. He had given her that so many times when she had needed it.

She let out a deep breath, stood up, and pulled a dress from the crowded rod. Soft yellow with pale spring flowers. Why observe his death when she could love his life?