I roll my wheelchair through the rooms of the house, Jenny in step behind me.
In the living-room, the empty couch where she slept. Around the fireplace, a string of lights she installed one Christmas.
Through the sun room window, the hummingbird feeder she planted and filled waits for a visitor.
In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator door and look for something for breakfast. Past the potato salad, lasagna, and cucumber salad she made, I reach for the peanut butter, placing it and the last banana on a tray. I make a cup of green tea, then take my breakfast back to the bedroom.
I settle in bed, adjusting the tray across my lap. Jenny sits beside me. Cleo, the cat, lies at my feet. Watchful of my every move, both wait for a morsel they believe is their due. The flowers she gave me arranged in a vase on the off-white French bureau add an uplifting feel to the room.
Outside, a cardinal eats seeds from the window feeder she sent last winter. Now a squirrel arrives, frightening the cardinal away. Cleo runs to the window and furiously claws at the glass. The squirrel, unruffled, continues his meal.
After breakfast, I return the tray to the kitchen, rolling through the rooms once more, traces of her in almost every quiet room.