Nora and I drove the route in September — my granddaughter, twenty-three, who did drive too fast, which was correct — Niagara in reverse, the pie place (4.5 stars; we left the forty-sixth five-star review, it’s under KELLER, PARTY OF THREE, COUNTING GRANDPA), two nights at a motor lodge that has the same sign it had in 1974 and, I’d swear, the same bedspreads. At the Falls, Nora photographed me at the railing holding one yellow rose, and I told her the whole story over funnel cake, and my granddaughter — who texts in fragments and calls emotions “a lot” — went home and had the invoice framed. ORDER 4 OF 20. It hangs in my hallway now, next to the wedding photo with the daisies. Sixteen more Octobers are already paid for; Wren says after that, “we’ll discuss terms,” and we both know her freezer probably has instructions in it too. So here is what I’ve learned, and I’ll hand it over with the tissue paper still on it: love, real love, is not the bouquet — it’s the ORDER FORM. It’s somebody sick and scared in the spring of the worst year, spending his Tuesday mornings making sure your Octobers were covered for two decades. If you have that kind of love, go label something for them today; the labels are the love letters that survive. And if you’ve lost that kind of love — go check the freezer, honey. I mean it kindly and I mean it literally. The good news in this life is very often under the pot roast, exactly where the person who knew you best knew you’d never look until you were ready.