Stephen and I stand at the entry table for the memorial party for Marty Kruse, a man I never met - stand next to Carole, his wife, a woman whose quirky happy has always turned my heart into a little circus balloon every moment I've been around her.
On the table are pictures of Marty and a framed needlepoint proclaiming Fuck Cancer, and a child's drawing.
Carole puts her hand on the shoulder of the little girl at her feet and says, "This is Claire. She's five."
I only see Claire's pretty, somber face in profile, as she stares across the table and rubs one finger gentle along the glass that frames her drawing - green grass and the thick crayoned strokes of a tall flower.